


The Upside of Uber

by OpenEndedDoor



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avoiding the rat race, Chicago (City), Crush at First Sight, Existentialism kinda, Friends With Benefits, Internal Monologue, M/M, Strangers to Lovers, Uber, Uber's bad company policies, music snobbery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:21:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27902905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpenEndedDoor/pseuds/OpenEndedDoor
Summary: Despite the fact that the gig comes with zero benefits and its fair share of hindrances, there’s something strangely liberating about it. Without it, he wouldn't have met Patrick Stump, owner/proprietor of True Blue Records.
Relationships: Gabe Saporta/Patrick Stump, Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 136
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't expect to write another fic before the end of the year, and I didn't expect it to grow in scope so much that it would become chaptered. And when I said someone should write a rideshare AU, I didn't have myself in mind, and I was halfway joking. But look! Here's a rideshare AU, and I'm the one writing it. Self-fulfilling prophecies are funny, aren't they?
> 
> A few quick notes:
> 
> Uber treats its employees like shit. I'm trying to address that here without making it the focus of the fic.
> 
> The timeline of this fic is a little off. It takes place in 2013 in my mind, but Uber didn't really take off until a couple of years later, so just shift Uber's timeline a bit earlier. It's an alternate universe, after all.
> 
> Endless thanks to [Snitches](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snitchesandtalkers) and [Logale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Logale) for beta reading, always.

It was supposed to be temporary, the whole Uber thing. When the CEO of Pete’s former place of employment committed tax fraud, Pete was an unfortunate casualty of the domino effect that led to the company’s collapse. Feeling adrift without his cushy finance job, he let Joe talk him into trying out the gig economy with him. Now Joe has another cushy job in IT, and Pete is still driving people around Chicago.

Despite the fact that the gig comes with zero benefits and its fair share of hindrances, sometimes in the form of people fucking up his nice plush seats with various bodily fluids, there’s something strangely liberating about it. Pete has spent most of his adult life at a desk or a conference table, beholden to people who stepped over him for the sake of a better pension plan. Now he’s beholden to no one (unless you count the woman who went into labor in his backseat; he has possibly never been so beholden to someone in his life). And sometimes he gets to have conversations with people who have actual lives and do interesting things, like running a bakery or training dogs.

Pete knows he’ll have to move on eventually, get another job. His relative freedom aside, the pay for driving people around in his own car, for which he still has to fork out the costs of gas and maintenance, is not exactly sustainable. He’s beginning to fall behind in almost every area of his life that requires money for upkeep, and when you start making less money, you realize how many of those areas there really are. He’d like to avoid dipping into his savings, and even that can only get him so far. Right now, though, Pete is taking it day by day. He’s exploring his options. Maybe he’ll open an art gallery. He likes art.

A notification pops up on his phone — a passenger named Patrick at a club in Lakeview, heading to a home address in Evanston. He finishes his taco in two bites and crumples the paper, tossing it into a nearby recycling bin before getting into his car. It’s dark out, but the city is still glowing, and Pete doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of the sight. He knows Chicago like the back of his hand. He hits up the Lakeview area quite a bit, and it usually holds his favorite customers — fun, chatty artist types. Trips to Lakeview always make him _really_ want to open an art gallery.

It turns out that Patrick is actually Patrick-and-another-guy, and they’re both ten levels of drunk. This is one of those moments when Pete feels a tinge of pride that he’s doing a public service, because there’s no way these two dudes should be walking around the city right now, and they _definitely_ shouldn’t be driving. The smaller guy — Patrick, Pete recognizes from his picture on the app — opens the driver’s side back door and stumble-collapses into the backseat. 

The other guy — who’s so tall Pete has a fleeting moment of fear that he won’t be able to fit into his sedan — has apparently forgotten that cars have multiple doors and starts climbing in on top of his friend. Patrick just giggles and scoots over while Tall Guy folds his sizable legs into the backseat. It then takes him three tries to get the door closed, and when he realizes the seatbelt is caught in it, he cackles like it’s the funniest thing ever.

When they’re both finally in, buckled up, and as settled as they’re probably going to be, Pete says, “So, it looks like you two have had a fun night.”

Patrick giggles again, scrunching his nose as he closes his eyes and tips his head back against the seat. _He’s beautiful_ — the thought screeches into Pete’s mind like speeding tires on asphalt. His face is flushed from alcohol, his hair tousled and a little damp with sweat, and his body supple against Pete’s backseat. He looks like he’s just been fucked. Pete wishes he was the one sitting shoulder to shoulder beside him. 

The guy who currently has that privilege slurs, “Fucking _amazing_ night, man. Hey, what’s your name?”

“Pete.”

“I’m Gabe.” He leans up and stretches his hand out over the middle console toward Pete, who grasps it in a quick handshake. “And this is Patrick.”

“Hi,” Patrick says shyly.

“Nice to meet you,” says Pete. He gestures toward his phone, cradled in its holder on his dash. “So, you’re both heading to the same address? In Evanston?”

“That we are, my man,” says Gabe.

“Not to pry, but are you both crashing there? Because I really don’t think either of you should be driving...”

Gabe barks out a laugh and says, “Oh, we are _definitely_ both crashing there.” He leans into Patrick then and proceeds to attach his lips to Patrick’s neck. _Ah_.

Pete watches in the rearview mirror as Patrick melts into Gabe's touch, and then he quickly blinks away. That's material for future ménage-à-himself sessions, not for present voyeuristic consideration.

They continue making out while Pete continues driving — an unspoken arrangement, which is fine, really. Pete's used to this. It comes with the territory. The thing is, he thought he had grown numb to it — you experience enough people sucking face in your car and it just doesn’t affect you anymore. So he's not quite sure what to do with this new development, where he's actually interested in what's going on back there. He's trying really hard not to glance at Patrick in the rearview mirror every two minutes.

After what feels like half the night rather than only half an hour, Pete pulls up to a row of quaint townhouses in Evanston. He lets his eyes slide ever so carefully to the mirror. Gabe is preoccupied with Patrick’s neck again, but Patrick’s eyes are open, and they flick to Pete’s. 

Pete holds his gaze in the mirror, and it’s amazing what a few seconds of eye contact can do to a person’s biology. His heart speeds up while his concept of time slows down. Pete watches Patrick’s mouth open slightly as Gabe's teeth graze his neck. Patrick watches Pete watching him, blue eyes burning into brown.

Pete’s eyes dart downward, and he clears his throat. “Uh, home sweet home?”

Gabe reluctantly detaches himself from Patrick. “Thanks for the ride, Pete,” he says as he gets out of the car. Pete has to give him props for remembering his name. He isn’t sure he would remember his _own_ name if he had just snogged Patrick for a full half-hour.

Patrick lingers in the backseat, his eyes on Pete. He looks like he wants to say something, maybe an apology or an explanation. Instead, he settles on, “Yeah, thanks for the ride,” and gives Pete a small, polite wave as he slides out of the car.

⭗⭗⭗⭗

“You want to what?” Joe’s voice is dripping with skepticism.

“Open an art gallery.” Pete smiles at the barista as she hands him his sugary fuel then follows Joe through the throng of people in the packed cafe.

“How, exactly?” Joe asks, picking up the conversation once they’ve settled at a relatively secluded table.

“I have savings, and I can get a small business loan.”

“Do you actually know any artists?”

“If I build it, the artists will come.”

Joe raises his eyebrows. “Really? That’s your plan? You’re gonna _Field of Dreams_ it?”

“I’ve been spending a lot of time in Lakeview,” Pete continues undeterred, “and I think there’s a market for it there. Artists are always looking for places to showcase their work.”

“Okay, I’m confused. I thought you wanted to get back into consulting.”

“No offense, but I really, really don’t.” Pete doesn’t exactly know what he wants to do, if he’s being honest with himself. It’s possible he’s having a midlife crisis. “Can you have a midlife crisis at 34?”

Joe sighs. “Have you talked to your dad about it?”

Pete gives Joe a withering look. “Did you not just hear me say I’m 34? I don’t need to run to Daddy with this.”

“Yeah, but I also heard you say you’re having a midlife crisis. Aren’t you _supposed_ to run to your wealthy parents when you’re having a crisis?” 

Pete shakes his head. “Look, I understand how a business works, and when all is said and done, an art gallery is just that — a business. I’m tired of helping the suit-clad make an extra buck off the backs of their employees. I want to help creatives instead.”

“Well, aren’t you an American hero.”

“I really need to find more supportive friends.”

“I’m sorry, man. I just — I’m a little worried about you, to be honest. If I knew you were gonna stick with Uber this long, I wouldn’t have convinced you to try it with me.”

“Well, I’m glad I tried it with you. I mean, shitty company policies aside, it might be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Joe gives Pete a look that falls somewhere between skepticism and pity. “That’s sad, man.”

“It got me out of my bubble,” insists Pete. “And I’ve learned that, yes, humans suck, but they can also be amazing. There are people who _train dogs_ for a living. I haven’t been around enough awesome people in my life, Joe. I’ve been around too many truly awful people instead.”

“How did we get from opening an art gallery to training dogs?”

“I don’t want to train dogs. I mean, I do, but I know I can’t. What I _can_ do is open an art gallery, and I’m making it happen, with or without your support.”

Joe sighs. “You know I’ll support you. Just… be careful and stuff.”

“I need to find more eloquent friends, too.”

⭗⭗⭗⭗

It’s just after 2:00 a.m. on a Saturday, and Pete is in the middle of transporting the usual slew of drunken post-revelry customers. His phone pings with the next passenger’s info, and he almost drops it. It’s Patrick — same name on the screen, same profile picture with a shy grin and those unmistakable blue eyes. 

Pete has only been doing this for a few months, but he hasn’t had a repeat customer yet. There are nearly three million people in Chicago. _What are the fucking odds?_ It’s been over a week since Pete drove Patrick and Gabe home, but that 30-minute trip was immediately filed at the front of his “most memorable drives” folder. He hasn’t prepared himself for the possibility of picking up Patrick again because he didn’t think it even _was_ a possibility. It’s so far out of the realm of possibility that he might as well be transporting the Dalai Lama. Maybe Patrick is some kind of guardian angel of Uber drivers. He _looks_ like an angel, but surely an angel wouldn’t participate in a steamy make-out session in full view of their driver. That’s a cardinal sin of being an Uber passenger, and angels don’t sin.

Pete drives to Lakeview again and pulls up, this time, to a bar where Patrick is waiting for him on the sidewalk. He looks delicious in a leather jacket and dark skinny jeans. He’s wearing a t-shirt sporting the album cover of Television’s “Marquee Moon” — information that Pete files away as a potential conversation-starter. 

He climbs into the backseat, alone, and closes the door. If he recognizes Pete, he doesn’t give any indication. They just exchange greetings, and Patrick settles back into his seat, looking a little bit glum. Thankfully, he seems several shades away from plastered-drunk tonight.

“Riding solo this time?” Pete asks and immediately regrets it. _Way to make yourself sound like a total creep right out of the gate, Wentz_.

Their eyes meet in the rearview mirror, and Pete feels his cheeks warm as he remembers the last time their eyes made contact like this. He sees the moment recognition registers on Patrick’s face. “You’re — You drove us before, me and Gabe.”

“Yeah,” says Pete, chuckling. “What are the odds, right?”

“Seriously,” Patrick says, sounding awed. “Have you ever driven someone twice before?”

“Nope, you’re my first.” Pete grins and then internally berates himself again for accidentally sounding like a creep.

“Well, consider me honored,” Patrick responds, and the smile he gives Pete is enough to make him wonder how he’s still a solid mass and not sinking right through his seat.

Patrick’s face goes serious. “Hey,” he says, “I’m glad I’m seeing you again, because I want to apologize for that night. Our, uh, behavior was incredibly rude. We were the epitome of obnoxious drunks.”

Pete shakes his head. “Don’t even worry about it. I’ve had much worse obnoxious drunks in my car, believe me.”

“Still,” Patrick insists, “we shouldn’t have. Gabe has a tendency to get… handsy when he’s been drinking.”

“He’s tall,” Pete says, like an idiot, because he has no idea what to say.

Patrick just nods and looks out the window. A couple of minutes stretch on, and Pete is in agony. Sitting just a couple of feet away from him is the cutest person Pete has ever had in his vehicle, and not only that, but he’s been in his vehicle _twice_. This has to be a sign from God or some other higher power. 

Pete can’t let this opportunity go to waste. Patrick might be taken by someone else — an intimidatingly tall and attractive someone else — but still. Sign from God, right? Pete has to do _something_ . He has people skills — both his current gig and his former career require them. _So put those people skills to use on this gorgeous person, Wentz, goddammit._

“Marquee Moon. Great album,” says Pete.

Patrick’s eyes light up as he looks back at Pete in the mirror. “Right? It’s incredible.”

“Blew my mind the first time I heard it. I couldn’t believe guitars could sound like that.”

“I know! It’s one of the albums that made me want to play guitar, actually.”

“You play guitar?” Can this guy be any more perfect?

“Just on the side,” says Patrick. “I play around Lakeview sometimes. The crowds out here are always good.”

“Play any Television?”

Patrick laughs. “Nah. I’m not sure how much of a crowd-pleaser that would be.”

Pete imagines Patrick onstage, sweaty, fingering a guitar, and he’s pretty sure he would be a crowd-pleaser no matter what he played.

“What do you do when you’re _not_ not playing Television to people in bars?”

“This probably won’t surprise you,” Patrick says, “but I own a record store in Lakeview. That way, when I’m not playing music, I can talk people’s ears off about it.”

“Hey, feel free to talk my ears off about music. Just let it out. That’s what I’m here for.”

Patrick laughs again — a full, hearty laugh that Pete feels a sense of pride for bringing out of him. “You might regret saying that.”

“No, really,” insists Pete. “I wish everyone I drove would talk to me about music instead of, you know, going on semi-offensive rants about current events or arguing with their spouse on the phone.”

“You must put up with a lot of shit,” says Patrick.

Pete shrugs. “Most people aren’t that bad. You have hits and misses. I’m sure you put up with shitty customers in your store. I mean, there are people in this world who actually buy Train records.”

Patrick shudders. “Ugh, Train fans.”

“Can you imagine?”

“I really can’t.”

“‘Cause you only like good music, right?”

“Only objectively good music.”

Pete glances up and sees Patrick’s wide smile mirroring his own.

“So,” Pete says, “work your magic on me. If you had to recommend three albums to me, what would they be?”

“I don’t know you well enough. I’d have to know what kind of music you like, besides Television, and what you’re in the mood for.”

“We have time,” says Pete, “if you’re cool with that. I don’t want to put you on the spot.”

“No, no,” Patrick says, still smiling. “I want to know.”

They talk for the rest of the drive. Patrick recommends albums by Calexico, Baroness, and Thundercat based on the information Pete gives him, and Pete intends to listen to all three as soon as possible. 

The more they talk and the closer they get to Patrick’s home, the more desperation begins to creep into Pete’s mind. He doesn’t want this to be the last time he talks to Patrick. Maybe Pete is too superstitious, but this feels like serendipity. He knows Patrick has someone waiting for him, but he only wants to see him again, to talk to him about music and shitty customers, and to be able to call him a friend. He doesn’t even have to fall in love with him. Really. 

But he also doesn’t want to come off as creepy. Maybe Patrick is just tolerating him out of politeness. Maybe he really wishes he would shut up and that he didn’t have to chat with his Uber driver all the way home. It would probably be pushing the bounds of their limited driver-passenger interaction way too far to ask if he wants to hang out sometime.

By the time Pete pulls up to Patrick’s townhouse, he’s talked himself down from saying anything to Patrick at all, besides the typical “Thank you, have a good night.”

But after they exchange pleasantries, Patrick lingers in Pete’s car. “Hey,” he says, “I was having a really shitty night, and, um, this was honestly really great. Uh, if you ever want to stop by the shop and make good on those recommendations, here’s my card.” 

He slips a business card to Pete. It reads “True Blue Records, Owner/Proprietor: Patrick Stump” with a phone number and a Lakeview address.

“Yeah,” says Pete, heart beating fast against his chest, “I’ll stop by sometime.”

“I’d really like that,” says Patrick as he opens the car door. “And hey, I’m sorry again about last time.”

“Don’t worry about it. Really.”

Patrick smiles again before he climbs out of Pete’s car and closes the door. As Pete drives away, his mind is a swirl of thoughts. He’s trying to reconcile two different lives. In his past life, he was awarded health insurance and paid vacation in exchange for stuffy suits and conversations with equally stuffy plutocrats. In his current life, Uber has done all but tell him he’s a piece of dogshit on the bottom of their Louboutins, but… in this life, he met Patrick Stump, owner/proprietor of True Blue Records.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize to any Train fans who might be reading this. Music is subjective. They're just snobs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was a quick update. Hope you're having a great week!

Pete agonizes over a 3.5x2-inch piece of paper for a week before he finally gives in and drives to True Blue Records. He goes on his day off so he’ll have plenty of time to continue agonizing beforehand over what to wear and what to say. When he finally settles on an outfit and builds up enough courage to drive to Lakeview and walk into the store, Patrick is nowhere to be found. 

There’s a bored-looking brunette woman wearing a Tears for Fears shirt at the counter and a heavily tattooed redheaded guy hanging posters on the window. The store itself is dimly lit, with a black-and-white checkered floor and rows of records covering the walls. There’s a section filled with music books and old magazines, and the back wall is plastered with various tour posters. Pete wonders how many of those shows Patrick has been to.

He failed to consider the fact that Patrick might not be working when he stopped by. How often is he here, anyway? Maybe he didn’t really want to see _Pete_ , he just saw a potential customer and wanted him to check out the shop. Pete feels a bit like an idiot, but he’s here now. The store is inviting in spite of its curated coolness, and the stacks of music are beckoning, so he might as well have a look around and get what he came for. He heads to the Metal section with Baroness in mind.

He’s holding all three of the records Patrick recommended and browsing through the music books near the back when he hears a familiar voice say, “Vicky, did Mr. Hennemann’s order get here this morning?”

Pete turns his head and looks to the front of the store. Behind the counter, Patrick is holding a heavy-looking door open with one hand. He has a small stack of records in his other hand and his cell phone cradled between his chin and shoulder. Pete feels breathless at the sudden sight of him, looking beautiful and every bit the record store owner in a jean jacket and an honest-to-god fedora. Pete’s heart is pounding, a common reaction that he’s beginning to associate with blue-green eyes, pale skin, and strawberry blonde hair. 

While Patrick waits for Vicky to check the pile of orders behind the counter, his eyes scan the shop and land on Pete. He raises his eyebrows and gives him a warm smile. Pete smiles back, holding up his records with one hand and pointing at them with the other. Patrick’s smile grows wider, and he nods enthusiastically.

“Yep, his order’s here,” Vicky calls, and Patrick resumes his phone conversation, closing the door behind him.

A minute later, the door opens again. As Patrick steps out, Mazzy Star’s “Fade Into You” trickles out of the overhead speakers, and Pete almost dies right there on the spot. He thinks it’s ridiculously unfair that the universe gave him a repeat passenger this perfect only for him to be taken by someone else. The universe _would_ do that, the fucker.

“Baroness, Thundercat, and Calexico,” Patrick says as he approaches Pete. “Good taste.”

“Yeah, some guy I know recommended them to me. I’m pretty sure he’s stalking me because he showed up in my Uber twice, but he has good taste in music, so I’ll let it slide.”

Patrick laughs, smooth and sweet as honey, and Pete melts a little. He shouldn’t be this far gone for someone he’s only had one full conversation with.

“I’m really glad you came by,” Patrick says. He sounds so sincere, and he looks almost… eager? It’s too much to hope for.

“The shop is really nice.” Pete points to the posters on the back wall. “Have you been to any of those shows?”

“I have! I ordered most of them online, but I try to pick them up at gigs if they’re available. This one,” Patrick points to an Elvis Costello & The Imposters poster, “is my favorite. I’ll never forget that night.”

They talk for a while, settling into the same comfortable conversation that they had in Pete’s car. It’s like they’re picking up where they left off. It’s strange, Pete thinks, how you can go your whole life without knowing someone and be fine, but the second you meet them, it feels like you’ve been missing out on something the whole time.

“How did you do this?” Pete asks. “I mean, opening a record store, going into business for yourself. How did you make that happen?”

“It’s not easy. Most of the time, there’s not much profit in it. You have to be kind of crazy in how much you love it. A few years ago, I knew a DJ who wanted to get rid of his record collection. He had a spare room packed so full you had to climb over boxes to get around in there. And I had accumulated a pretty big collection myself, over the years. The idea grew from there, and before I knew it, I was looking at business loans and scouting locations.”

“I’m actually thinking about starting a business. Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know any artists, would you?”

“Vicky’s an artist.” Patrick gestures to her behind the counter.

“Does she need a place to exhibit her work?”

“She has art shows every now and then, but I think she’s actually looking for a studio right now.”

“Hmm. I want to open a gallery, but I could include a studio space — rent it out, maybe hire artists to teach classes.”

“I think Vicky would be down for that.”

“I admire you, following what you love, working for yourself. And figuring it all out at a pretty young age, too. You’ve got to be younger than me, right?”

“I’m 29.”

“Yeah, I’m 34, and I’m pretty sure I’m having an early midlife crisis.”

Patrick laughs. “I don’t think crises are an age-specific thing. I feel like I have daily crises here in the store.”

“You look pretty held together to me,” Pete says.

“Well, that’s just because you don’t know me well enough yet.” Pete’s brain latches onto the word _yet_ and holds it like a security blanket. Does Patrick want him to get to know him?

He wants to ask Patrick out for coffee or dinner, but _Gabe_ flashes in his mind — a four-letter word as bright and insistent as a marquee. He’s stuck between a rock and a cockblocker. Even if his goal is just to be Patrick’s friend, he can’t make any moves without seeming like he’s crossing a line.

Patrick steps up to the plate again, though, and solves that dilemma for him. He pulls his hat off and runs his fingers through his hair, looking lost in thought. He places his hat back on his head and says, "Do you want to grab a coffee sometime, talk about your gallery-slash-studio?"

"I'd love that," Pete says as relief spreads through him.

Patrick smiles, and bells jingle. It takes a second for Pete to realize that it’s the door to the store opening and not some kind of natural effect of Patrick’s smile. He looks behind Patrick to see Gabe striding in, lithe and stunning even in just a hoodie, jeans, and Converse. His smile would look goofy on anyone else, but it fits him, only adding to his specific brand of attractive quirkiness. Pete is trying not to let himself be jealous. It’s emphatically not working.

“Hey, my lovelies!” Gabe shout-says. He spreads his arms wide and then points at Pete. “Except you. I don’t know you.”

“He’s lovely, though,” Vicky says, smiling at Pete as he and Patrick make their way to the front of the store.

“All of our customers are lovely,” Andy chimes in from the New Releases section, where he’s stocking records.

Gabe strides over to Patrick and puts his arms around his shoulders, bending down to place his chin on the top of Patrick’s head.

“Not now, Gabe,” Patrick says as he shrugs him off. “I have a customer.”

Pete’s heart sinks. Everything was going so well until this stark reminder of reality came strolling into the store. Patrick has a boyfriend. Pete is just a customer.

“Come on, let’s get you taken care of,” Patrick says, and Pete follows him to the counter, painfully aware of Gabe following close behind.

As Patrick rings up Pete’s records, Gabe leans on the counter and stares at him, eyes narrowed. “You look familiar,” he says. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“I’m an Uber driver,” says Pete. “You were my passenger a couple of weeks ago.”

Gabe’s eyes go wide. “Oh!” He laughs. “You picked us up _that night_.”

Patrick glares at Gabe.

“Yes, _that night_ ,” says Pete.

“Oh man, Patrick felt so bad, but I told him you were probably used to it.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Patrick mutters.

“Yeah, it’s no big deal,” says Pete, wishing he was on the moon. “You learn to tune it out.”

“Wait, what night was this?” asks Vicky.

“Nothing,” says Patrick. “It’s nothing.”

Gabe ignores him and barrels on. “We made out in the backseat of this poor guy’s car.”

“You did _what_?” says Vicky as Andy echoes her with, “What?!” from two aisles over.

Patrick is giving Gabe a look like he wants to drag him outside and strangle him with his own freakishly long legs.

“This _poor guy’s_ name is Pete,” says Patrick. He looks at Vicky. “And it’s nothing. We did _nothing_.”

Pete is undoubtedly annoyed, but he thinks they’re all overreacting a bit. It’s not like Patrick and Gabe making out is big news. That’s what people who are dating do. And it happens in Ubers more often than you’d think. People get caught up in the heightened emotions of a night out. It is what it is.

“It was hot, though, right?” Gabe asks, giving Pete an exaggerated wink.

“Okay!” Patrick practically screeches. “We’re all done here! Let me walk you out!”

He steers Pete toward the door, leaving Gabe and his giant grin behind.

“So,” Patrick says, once they’re outside, standing on the sidewalk, his face still splotched red with embarrassment. “Um, about that coffee?”

“Yes!” Pete says, probably too enthusiastically. “Definitely. Here, let me give you my cell number.” 

⭗⭗⭗⭗

They meet two days later at a cafe in Lakeview, on a Friday evening after one of Pete’s rare day shifts. Patrick is already there when Pete arrives, sitting at a quiet corner table sipping his coffee. He smiles and waves, and Pete mirrors the gesture as he gets in line to order.

When he gets to the table, Patrick stands up and pulls him into a hug. It’s a shock to Pete’s system. He hadn’t tapped Patrick as a huggy person, and he didn’t know they were at the hugging stage of their friendship yet. Can he even call it a friendship? On top of that, it’s been a while since he’s had this much physical contact with someone who wasn’t a family member. Joe isn’t a hugger, and Pete hasn’t made any new friends in years. He’s around people every day now, but he only gets glimpses into their lives, into the kind of lives that he could have had — maybe still could have, if he gets through this stagnant period.

He inhales Patrick’s musky cologne and revels in the feel of his torso against his own. Patrick is soft and supremely huggable. Pete fights the urge to run his hands along his sides and bury his nose in his hair. But the _Gabe_ marquee is flashing in his mind again, making it only slightly easier to resist.

Pete keeps the hug casual, and they quickly settle into an easy, comfortable conversation. Patrick goes into detail about True Blue Records, explaining the ups and downs the shop has been through since the beginning. He talks about the creative ways he’s pulled through some of the rough patches, like hiring DJs to play in-store. And he goes over the technicalities — inventory and overhead costs, insurance, taxes. By the time the conversation reaches a lull, Pete is feeling simultaneously inspired and overwhelmed.

“Why an art gallery?” Patrick asks. “Are you an artist yourself?”

Pete laughs. “I wish,” he says. “All I really know is the business world, but I admire creative people, and I feel like I could cultivate that, maybe have some kind of collective where artists can come together and I can help them get their work out there.”

Patrick smiles warmly. “I think that’s pretty noble of you.”

“But unrealistic, right?”

Patrick shakes his head, but before he can say anything else, a voice from behind them cuts in — “Patrick, I didn’t know you had company!” Pete turns around to see Vicky from the record store approaching their table, dressed in a tight black dress, holding hands with a cute blonde in a crop top.

“Hi,” Vicky says, looking at Pete. “You were at True Blue the other day.”

“I was,” Pete confirms.

“I don’t think we’ve properly met. I’m Vicky. This is my girlfriend, Hayley.” Hayley gives a little wave.

“I'm Pete."

"Yes, I remember," Vicky says, eyes shining as she looks back and forth between Pete and Patrick.

Patrick clears his throat and checks his watch. “Wow, I didn’t realize it was so late.”

“Come on,” Vicky says. “Get your ass in gear, Stump.”

“Hey, do you want to come with us?” Patrick asks, looking at Pete.

“Uh, where are you going?”

“Clubbing!” Vicky says. “You should _definitely_ come with."

“Oh. I don’t know...” Pete hesitates. He hasn’t been to a club in years, and the thought of being in one with Patrick is making various parts of his body react in ways they shouldn’t. He swallows.

“Come on,” Patrick says. “Something tells me you could use a night out.”

“I don’t —” Vicky cuts him off by grabbing his hand and pulling him up from the table. He feels slightly manhandled, but he’s surprisingly okay with it. 

“You’re coming with us,” she says. “I promise we don’t bite — hard. Or maybe Patrick does. I don’t know what he’s into.”

Pete looks at Patrick with an expression that he hopes conveys _help_ , but Patrick just gives him an exaggerated shrug and a sly smile.

⭗⭗⭗⭗

Thirty minutes later, Pete finds himself surrounded by people, music thumping through his solar plexus, wondering how he got from this morning in his car — when he listened to a man say into his phone, “No, there’s no one around, I’m just in an Uber,” as if Pete was a magical driving insect — to the middle of a club surrounded by three people who are currently debating who gets to buy him a shot first.

Three shots later — courtesy of Vicky, Hayley, and Patrick respectively — Pete feels syrupy and warm. He lets Patrick pull him out onto the dance floor. Pete hasn’t danced in a long time. He _doesn’t_ dance. But Patrick hasn’t stopped smiling at him since the cafe, and all Pete can think about is that hug and the feeling of Patrick against him.

They just move together at first, staying close but not quite touching. Pete laughs. “I feel ridiculous,” he says.

Patrick's brow furrows. “What?” he mouths.

Pete leans in closer to Patrick, and instead of repeating himself, his mouth betrays him. “You look amazing,” he says.

Patrick presses against Pete, his breath hot against Pete’s ear as he responds, “So do you.”

Vicky and Hayley grab each of their hands — pulling Pete out of an embarrassingly dirty reverie involving his ear and Patrick’s tongue — and they all dance together in one big, tipsy, uninhibited cluster. Pete does his best approximation of dancing, but he’s mostly watching Patrick. He wouldn’t technically call Patrick a good dancer by any stretch of the imagination, but it doesn’t matter. He’s genuinely enjoying himself, and it gives him an air of confidence that’s contagious. So Pete lets go of everything — his job, his age, his aimlessness — and dances like he’s ten years younger and the world is his for the taking.

The uptempo dance song ends, and the beginning notes of a slow song echo through the club’s soundsystem, reverberating over the dance floor. People break off and join together. Hayley leans back against Vicky, who wraps her arms around her waist, and they sway to the music. 

Patrick looks at Pete hesitantly — _or expectantly_? Pete is at a loss. He’s wholly unprepared for this, and his mind is too fuzzy to deal with it. He had briefly forgotten that slow songs existed. Then, Patrick moves forward in one swift motion, wrapping his arms around Pete’s neck and pressing his torso flush against Pete’s.

The _Gabe_ marquee is dulled in Pete’s mind, shut off for closing time, so Pete allows himself this: his hands on Patrick’s waist, squeezing just a little before sliding down to his hips, then moving to the small of his back. He feels every movement of Patrick's body magnified against his. He touches his forehead to Patrick’s and closes his eyes, trying to imagine a world where this is real, where Patrick is his and this is what they do. The club fades to darkness, and Pete exists only in this single moment, in the heat between their bodies and the questions between their lips. He hears Patrick’s voice crystal clear as he says, “What are you thinking about?”

Pete opens his eyes. Patrick looks like he did that first night in the rearview mirror, hair mussed and sweat glistening on his skin. Pete leans in closer and says, “Who’s going to take you home?”

Patrick smiles. “I’ll get an Uber.”

“You’re gonna cheat on me with another driver? I’m hurt.”

“Just for one night, but it won't mean anything. You're still my favorite. I promise.”

And then Patrick leans in and presses his face against Pete’s neck, and it’s too much. Guilt careens into him, and he suddenly feels way too sober. The marquee flashes back on, its light bulbs blinding — The Boyfriend Theatre is open for business.

Pete backs away as the music builds. “Speaking of, I should probably get going.”

“Oh,” Patrick says, blinking. “Okay.” 

They stand in front of each other, a cold silence stretching between them. Patrick looks deflated, and Pete feels a pang of regret for ruining his fun. That’s all dancing is — harmless, meaningless fun.

They walk off the dance floor, side by side but carefully not touching, over to the table where they left their empty shot glasses.

“Do you work tomorrow?” Patrick asks.

“Not til late,” Pete says. “But I want to give the hangover a chance to run its course.”

“Oh, yeah.” Patrick nods and runs his fingers through his sweat-damp hair, looking anywhere but at Pete. “Understandable.”

“Hey,” Pete says, drawing Patrick’s eyes back to him, “this was fun. You were right — I needed it.”

“Good. I’m glad you came out.”

Patrick’s availability or lack thereof aside, Pete can’t help but hold onto that fated feeling. The universe brought Patrick into his life, and he wants to keep him there in any capacity he can. “Hey, um, if you ever need me to pick you up — I mean, if you don’t want to deal with an Uber, you’re more than welcome to call me. No purchase necessary.”

“What? No.” Patrick shakes his head. “I couldn’t do that. I don’t want to use you for free rides.”

Pete tries not to think too hard about all of the possible responses to that statement. “You wouldn’t be using me. Consider it repayment for letting me pick your brain today — and for the shots.”

“I don’t know...”

“Look, I know how it can be sometimes, getting an Uber, especially when you’re by yourself. So if you’re ever in that situation and you don’t want to deal with it, just call me."

Pete watches the rise and fall of Patrick’s chest as he sighs. “Okay. I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Good. And thank you for — everything. I had a great, uh, half a day with you.”

Patrick smiles. “I had a great half a day with you, too.”

“See you around, Patrick.”

“Bye, Pete.”

Pete watches as Patrick turns around and heads back into the throng of people. He wonders if this is simply how his life is meant to go — relegated to the periphery of the people with the right names and faces, always missing that one final piece for everything to fall into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't expect every update to happen this quickly. I just really needed to get this out of my docs. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> I imagine the song they dance to is "Let Me Down Gently" by La Roux, if you're into that kind of thing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your comments on the last chapter! I'm sorry I haven't responded to them yet, but I appreciate them very much. And I hope you had a lovely holiday, if you celebrated. <3
> 
> A quick disclaimer to say I know next to nothing about cars, so I apologize in advance if I got anything wrong.

The call comes more quickly than Pete anticipated, and it comes conveniently on his night off. It’s just past midnight, and he’s lying on his couch in a t-shirt and sweats, uncomfortably full from downing way too much of a large pizza by himself. He’s dozing off to some random nature documentary when his phone rings. His dog, Bear, grunts and jumps off the couch as Pete sits up and looks at the screen:  _ True Blue Patrick _ .

“Hey,” Pete answers. “Everything okay?”

“Hey,” Patrick’s voice comes through, sounding lovely but a bit shaken. “I’m really sorry to do this, but can you — um, do you think you could come get me?”

“Of course.” Pete is already pulling on jeans. “Where are you?”

“I’m at Scarlet. Same place you picked me up the first time.”

“Got it. I’m on my way.”

“Pete,” Patrick hesitates. “You can say no. I mean, you don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t have to. I  _ want _ to. I’ll be there before you know it.”

“I… Thank you.”

Pete hangs up and finishes throwing on his clothes. “Be good, buddy,” he says, patting Bear’s head. “Daddy’s gotta go be a knight in shining armor.”

When he arrives at the club, Patrick is standing outside waiting for him. He starts to get in the back, but Pete gestures to the front passenger seat and says, “Hey, why don’t you sit up here instead?”

Patrick gets in next to Pete and says, “Are you sure this is okay?”

“Of course. This isn’t an Uber tonight, anyway.”

“Are you — Is it your night off?”

Pete shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Oh god,” Patrick looks pained. “I made you come pick me up on your  _ night off _ , of course I fucking did. I’m so sorry.”

“You know what I was doing when you called?”

Patrick shakes his head. He’s had a few, at least. His face is flushed, and his hair is sweaty from dancing. He looks like he did the first night Pete picked him up, only instead of loose and giggly, he looks morose.

“I was lying on my couch with my dog watching a documentary about killer whales.”

Patrick smiles. “Killer whales are awesome. You know they’re actually dolphins?”

“I did not know that, because I fell asleep about five minutes into the documentary.”

Patrick laughs again. All Pete wants to do is make him laugh, but it takes about ten seconds for his face to fall.

“Is everything okay?” Pete asks.

“It’s fine,” says Patrick, turning his head to look out the window as they cruise down the boulevard along the edge of Lake Michigan.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Patrick says sternly.

“Okay.” Pete looks straight ahead. They’re quiet for a while, and Pete wishes he could shut his brain off. Instead, he’s desperately thinking of things he could potentially do or say to make Patrick feel better. His favorite deep-dish place is nearby — maybe he could buy him a pizza. Food is a love language, right?

After a little while, he hears Patrick say, softly, “I’m sorry. You were nice enough to drive out here on your night off. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just… been a rough night.”

“Hey, it’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it.” And because sometimes Pete’s mouth has a mind of its own, he keeps going. “We can talk about anything! We can talk about the fucking weather, I don’t care. I just — you know. I like talking to you.”

Patrick doesn’t respond, so Pete glances over, and Patrick is just looking at him. His expression is unreadable, but Pete thinks,  _ hopes, _ that Patrick sees something sincere in him, something that’s enough to make him want to talk to Pete, too.

Patrick opens his mouth to speak, and at that moment, Pete’s sensible, reliable Honda decides it’s had enough of this constant driving around and could really use a break, thank you very much, and proceeds to make an alarming knocking sound.

Patrick sniffs. “Do you smell that?”

It smells like burning rubber. “Yeah,” says Pete. “Fuck. I think it’s the engine.” His car then begins to undergo a slow, painful, and smoky death.

Pete manages to limp his steaming hunk of useless metal into the nearest parking lot, which turns out to be, of all the places in Chicago, the Evanston Ecology Center. It’s almost 1:00 a.m., so the stone building is dark inside, and it’s surrounded by trees, giving Pete a strange sense that they’re sitting in the middle of a forest clearing despite the persistent presence of pavement.

Pete gets out of the car and pops the hood, and he’s instantly enveloped by a cloud of smoke. He’s walking away from it, coughing, when Patrick gets out of the car.

“Are you okay?” Patrick asks before a coughing fit takes over his lungs, too.

They stand there, several feet apart in the middle of an arboretum, coughing their heads off.

When they’re able to compose themselves, Pete says, “Do you have any water?”

“What?”

“I think the engine overheated. If I pour water over it, it’ll cool it, maybe?”

“Uh, I don’t have any, but Lake Michigan isn’t far?”

Pete blinks at him.

“Okay, that was dumb, I know. I have only alcohol to blame.”

“I think I’m gonna have to get a tow. I don’t think I have any choice.”

“Yeah, I think it’s ready to explode.”

Pete plants a satisfying if somewhat painful kick onto his front bumper. “Dammit, I knew I should’ve gotten triple-A.”

“Doesn’t Uber take care of this kind of stuff for you?”

Pete barks out a mirthless laugh. “Yeah, you would think that, wouldn’t you?”

Patrick looks incredulous. “Will they cover the cost to get this fixed?”

Pete shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Seriously? What kind of company doesn’t offer roadside assistance and repair for their employees who fucking  _ drive around all the time _ ?”

“I’m technically not their employee. I’m a contractor. I work my ass off for them, but I’m actually just working for myself, which means I have to foot any extra costs.”

“That’s bullshit. What a convenient excuse to do fuck-all for their workers.”

“Tell me about it.” Pete walks back to the car and reaches inside for his phone.

Several minutes later, he hangs up and looks at Patrick. “The tow truck is on its way and so is my friend Joe, but we’re stuck here for probably half an hour.”

Patrick looks around at the trees and the darkened ecology center. “At least we’re stuck in kind of a cool place.”

“Nerd.” Pete smiles, and Patrick smiles back. He looks like he’s in a better mood, which is strange, considering they’re stranded in one of the most remote places possible for the middle of a city.

Patrick shivers a little, and Pete says, “Maybe we should get back in the car.”

“Uh, is it going to explode?”

“I think that only happens in movies?” Pete looks at the open hood. “I don’t know much about cars, but I think we’re good.”

Patrick shrugs and nods, and they climb back in. Once the doors are shut behind them, Pete is painfully aware of how quiet it is.

“Do you want to talk about the weather?” Patrick asks, breaking the silence.

Pete smiles. “I really do like talking to you,” he says, softly.

Patrick looks down at his hands. “I got in a fight with someone,” he says. “I needed to leave the club, and I remembered what you said the last time I saw you. I wasn’t thinking straight. I shouldn’t have called you.”

“I would protest that, but considering our current predicament, you probably  _ shouldn’t _ have called me, for your sake.”

Patrick laughs, and Pete grins at him, lost in the way his entire face lights up.

“Was it Gabe?” Pete asks, tentatively.

Patrick nods.

Pete takes a deep breath. Nothing feels certain anymore. His life is just a series of unknowns and unknowables, so he might as well take a stab in the dark and see if it sticks. He wouldn’t call it bravery; he just doesn’t feel like he has much to lose.

Keeping his eyes firmly directed downward, he asks, “How long have you guys been together?”

“We’re not,” Patrick says, and Pete’s heart rises to the top of his chest. “I mean, not really. I don’t know.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“It is,” Patrick says. “We’ve been friends for a long time, and now we’re…”

“More than friends,” Pete finishes.

Patrick sighs. "I don't know. I'm just — I'm not ready to settle down yet? I know that's such a dumb cliche, but I can't commit myself to one person right now. I keep fucking up and pissing off Gabe, and we're not even really, like,  _ a thing _ , you know?"

"And he wants you to be a thing."

"I think he's wanted that for a long time. And I can't give him that, and it makes me feel like a shitty person."

"But you're trying, right? I mean, you've tried."

Patrick sighs. "Yeah. I tried."

"Then you're not a shitty person."

Patrick shrugs. He looks at Pete, and his expression softens. Quietly, so quietly, he says, "There was something between you and me, right? A connection. I've felt it since..." He trails off, his face splotching red.

"Since that night I picked up you and Gabe?"

Patrick nods.

“Yeah. I felt it too."

They sit in silence. Pete feels like he’s at a crossroads, like there are multiple paths here, but they’re all shrouded in darkness and something is waiting to devour him at the end of each one.

"But,” Pete says, “my life is a mess right now. I'm a fucking Uber driver without a car. I don't know what I'm doing, and you just said you can't commit to anything. So maybe we should just... be friends? I mean, this is pretty good, what we have going on right now, right?" Pete is beginning to think that self-sabotage is his only real talent. Maybe there's a career path where that skill could come in handy. Then again, working as a contracted employee is a pretty safe bet for self-sabotage, so maybe he does have it all figured out after all.

"Okay," Patrick says slowly. "So, just friends, then."

"Just friends," Pete nods.

“Okay,” Patrick says again. “You’re right. You have a lot going on, and it would be irresponsible of me to jump in and complicate things for you. I already feel like a burden —”

“You are so  _ not _ a burden,” Pete says. “Honestly, it sucks that my car is broken, but I’m glad you called me. This was probably gonna happen anyway, and I’m glad it happened here, tonight, with you.” 

Patrick laughs softly. “I’ll take your word for it. Thank you for doing this. I think, in a weird way, it’s what I needed tonight.”

“You needed to break down in the middle of a forest within a city with some guy you barely know?”

“Yes,” Patrick laughs. “It’s a fucking adventure! And, like, we talked about stuff that I needed to get off my chest, so thank you.” Pete looks over at Patrick and smiles, and he can’t look away. Patrick is smiling back, and he’s looking at him with some kind of meaning behind his eyes that Pete doesn’t want to — can’t — process.  _ Just friends. _

“I think…” Patrick whispers.

“Yeah?”

“I think I needed  _ you.” _ And suddenly Pete is thinking things he shouldn’t be thinking.

They both sit there, looking at each other, thinking things they probably shouldn’t be thinking.

Then Patrick leans forward and presses his lips against Pete’s. It’s chaste and quick and unsure, but it ignites a fire of need in Pete so intense that it’s dangerous. He’s in the kind of trouble that he can’t come back from. This qualifies as one of the more reckless things he’s done in his life, and Pete’s recklessness is buried just beneath the surface, ever waiting for an opportunity to rear its ugly head. 

Patrick pulls back, his eyes searching Pete’s. Operating entirely on impulse, Pete reaches up and runs his thumb along Patrick’s cheekbone, a quiet invitation. Patrick leans in again.

Pete inhales as Patrick’s lips meet his again. He takes Patrick in and wills all of his senses to commit him to memory, because he knows this can’t last, but his brain and body won’t let him stop it from happening. Patrick keeps kissing him, and Pete keeps refusing to stop him.  _ Just friends _ . 

Between kisses, Pete mutters against Patrick’s lips, “You’re drunk,” and, “You’re going to regret this later.”

“Pete, this has been quite the sobering experience," Patrick responds, his hot breath mixing with Pete’s, "and I promise you, I’m not going to regret this.”

A stronger man might be able to resist, but Pete has been carting people around for months while his bank account dwindles along with his certainty about  _ anything  _ in life. Pete, at the moment, has a beautiful man in his arms, and Pete is very, very weak.

His hands are underneath the hem of Patrick's shirt and Patrick's lips are on his neck when Pete hears several rapid knocks on his window. Patrick's head shoots up like lightning, catching the underside of Pete's jaw and causing him to take a bite out of his own tongue. 

"Shit, sorry," Patrick mutters. 

Pete tastes blood as he shifts around to look out his window. Joe is standing outside, looking way too amused for someone who was woken up in the middle of the night by his best friend to deal with a crisis. He waves hello.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Future updates will continue to be slow (I'm sorry!), but unlike Pete's car, this fic is chugging along.


	4. Chapter 4

“So, Patrick seems nice,” says Joe. He’s sitting on Pete’s couch with Bear curled up next to him. Bear is slobbering on Joe’s jeans and looking up at him, his big brown eyes brimming with adoration. Sometimes Pete thinks his dog loves Joe more than he loves him, which is frankly unfair, considering how much of Bear’s poop Pete scoops up on their daily walks. Joe scritches Bear’s head absentmindedly, and Bear closes his mouth, looking blissed out.

“Don’t go there,” Pete says. He’s sitting on the floor, an empty beer can crumpled next to him, because he doesn’t feel like he deserves to be elevated to a chair.

“I’m just saying, he seems really nice for a guy I’ve never met before and know nothing about and had no idea you were dating.” 

They had made small talk but mostly stayed quiet after Joe arrived at the arboretum, the three of them waiting for the tow truck to arrive and then carpooling to their respective homes courtesy of Joe. Patrick’s hair was mussed and his lips were a deep red, and Pete felt like a teenager being awkwardly driven home from a date. He had refused to give Joe any details when the two of them were left alone in the car. He hadn’t felt up to it, anyway, because his mindset had shifted pretty quickly from lust to despair.

“That’s because I’m not dating him,” Pete says.

“Okaaay. I didn’t know you were offering your passengers bonus blowjobs.”

Pete grins. “Only if I break down. And there were no blowjobs, thanks to you.”

“Anytime, my friend. I’m just saying, I’ve never known you to pick up random guys. You’ve always seemed like a long-term relationship type of person.”

“You didn’t know me ten years ago.” Pete runs his hands over his face and sighs, despair creeping in again. “Dude, I’m trying to make a living as a driver, and I currently don’t have a car. I have more pressing things to deal with than my love life.”

“Okay, but it kinda _seemed_ pressing. Like, there was definitely pressing going on, from what I could tell.”

“Can you just let it go? It’s not gonna happen again, anyway. He’s just a friend.”

“Just a friend. Uh-huh. Okay, change of subject. Are you going to look for a _real_ job now?”

“Don’t be condescending.”

Joe lifts his hands up defensively, prompting a low whine from Bear. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just, you have a degree. You have a good résumé. I don’t understand why you let yourself get into this situation in the first place.”

“You don’t understand because you work in IT. You’re the fucking future or whatever, and you made your own choices to get where you are. Everything I’ve done has been at the behest of someone else — mainly my parents. I don’t want to go back to work for some crooked dude at the top of a financial food chain. I just want to do things on my own, for once. I want to figure this shit out. I’m 34 and I don’t know how to be a real person.”

“I don’t think anybody really knows? We’re all just fakin’ it ‘til we make it.”

Pete falls back and lies on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. Bear jumps down from the couch and trots over to lick his face. He hears the slide of glass against the coffee table and the click of a lighter. Then he hears Joe stretch out on the couch and turn on the TV, piercing the tension with a sitcom laugh track.

“If you need me to drive you to job interviews, just let me know,” Joe offers.

Pete just lies there, silent, and inhales the secondhand smoke.

⭗⭗⭗⭗

Pete gets a text from Patrick the day after what he has dubbed The Arboretum Incident:

_How’s your car?_

_Engine’s busted. Weighing my options_

_That sucks. I’d offer to drive you around,_

_but I think it’s pretty clear by now that I_

_don’t have a car._

_Yeah, I kinda figured. You’re the king of_

_public transportation_

_Such a king that I privatized my_

_transportation, got my own personal uber_

_driver._

_Speaking of… thank you for picking me up_

_the other night._

_Don’t thank me, you ended up stranded_

_in a forest. I could have murdered you_

_Yeah, but you had a prime opportunity to_

_and you didn’t. That says a lot about a person._

_Maybe I was just buttering you up_

_Maybe murder is my endgame_

_I can live with that. The buttering up was nice._

_Just nice?_

_Better than nice._

_Much better._

_So...is this how you treat all your friends?_

_Only the ones I find attractive._

_Lol I can’t fault you for honesty_

_So, what are you up to, friend?_

They text back and forth for days, picking up where the conversation ended after every lull. Patrick is easy to talk to. He’s clever and flirtatious. Pete gets the feeling that he’s done this before — whatever this is. It almost feels like a game, like each text is another chess piece moved across the board, but Pete likes talking to him so much that it doesn't matter. It’s been so long since he’s flirted, or since he’s had any close friendships besides Joe, and Patrick is _interesting_. He needs more interesting people in his life.

Sometimes, though, Pete digs down and finds gold. He uncovers pieces of Patrick that cut deeper, that feel like pushing in and getting to know who he really is underneath the flirting and the know-it-all sheen. These are the texts that feel like he’s getting somewhere, even if he’s not quite sure where that is.

_Lemme guess- you were a music major_

_Nope. Environmental Science._

_You’re shitting me_

_Explains how you know so much about whales_

_...or dolphins?_

_And why arboretums get you wet_

_Ha ha. It explains why I own a record store now._

_I had no fucking clue what I was doing._

_I did work for my college’s radio station tho_

_Of course you did lol_

_Did you dj?_

_I did._

_What did you play?? I need to know_

_I had my own show. Played a lot of Chicago_

_hardcore._

_Dude. You were so cool._

_I really wasn’t. I got outed on my own radio show._

_Wtf??_

_Yeah. I dated a guy who wanted me to come out,_

_felt like I was being selfish by not letting people_

_know. I think he mainly just wanted to be able to_

_show me off, or he was afraid that I was_

_embarrassed by him._

_We got in a really bad argument one day and I_

_broke up with him. He got back at me by calling_

_into my show and telling everyone live on air_

_that I was gay and I was the one who had_

_mistreated him._

_Fuck_

_That really fucking sucks_

_I’m so sorry_

_Eh, it’s okay. It was honestly harder to deal with_

_him than suddenly being outed. For the most part,_

_people were more supportive than I thought_

_they’d be. I got lucky._

_What happened with him?_

_He finally left me alone._

_After I got a restraining order._

_Shit_

_Just..._

_Shit_

_I’m sorry_

_Don’t be._

_So, you were a business major?_

_Economics_

⭗⭗⭗⭗

Friday night rolls around with another text from Patrick:

_U up?_

_That’s what the kids say, right?_

_I’m up. Are you drunk?_

_It’s Friday night. Of course I’m drunk. Can I call you?_

_Absolutely_

When Pete answers the phone, he can hear muffled dance music and people chattering in the background. “Don’t you ever just chill at home?”

“I’m on the cusp of 30,” Patrick responds. “I’m enjoying myself before I lose my devastating good looks.”

“I don’t even know where to begin with that statement. Let’s start with the fact that you’re implying I _don’t_ have devastating good looks.”

“You’re some kind of weird anomaly. I don’t believe you’re actually 34.”

“There’s so much wrong with this conversation.”

“Come out with us.”

“Uh,” Pete is standing in his kitchen, shirtless and going on two weeks unshaven. He scratches his beginnings-of-a-beard. He probably _should_ leave his house. “I don’t have a car. Remember? It exploded.”

“You don’t have to drive everywhere. Chicago has a robust public transportation system. Take the El.”

Pete stares at the box of mac’n’cheese in his hand, considering. “Who’s there with you?”

“Vicky and Hayley, Andy and some girl whose name I don’t remember,” Patrick pauses. “And Gabe.”

Pete starts at the mention of Gabe. It’s not like he shouldn’t expect it. Gabe and Patrick have been friends for a long time, from what Pete has gathered. Gabe is probably always going to be a fixture in Patrick’s life. It’s just, Pete still isn’t entirely sure where Patrick stands with Gabe — or with Pete, for that matter. The Arboretum Incident raised more questions than it answered, and Patrick’s texts haven’t been any more illuminating.

He looks at Bear, who lifts his head up from his paws immediately. “Are you okay with having the run of the house for tonight, buddy?”

“What?” Patrick asks.

“Shh, I’m talking to Bear.”

“Oh. What does he say?”

Bear lies his head back down and full-body sighs. “I think he’s cool with it, but I’ll have to make it up to him. You got any treats?”

Bear lifts his head up again, ears perked.

“No, but if he plays his cards right, I can give a mean belly rub.”

“If he plays his cards right, huh?”

“Mm-hmm. If you play yours right, maybe I’ll give you a belly rub, too.” Pete really should not be turned on by that.

“Alright, you win, but those belly rubs better be as good as you say they are.”

⭗⭗⭗⭗

“You know, for a music snob, you spend a lot of time in clubs.” Pete is sitting with Patrick in the back next to the bar, trying not to mentally calculate how much money he’s spent on drinks so far. His eyes flick to Gabe, who’s dancing between Andy and Cassie, the girl whose name Patrick couldn’t remember. She’s actually really nice, and Pete has resolved to remember her name for the both of them.

“Okay, first of all, who says I’m a snob?”

“You willingly participated in a conversation about how much Train sucks.”

“You started the conversation!”

“I never said I _wasn’t_ a snob.”

“Fair enough.” Patrick grins behind his vodka soda.

“Why _do_ you spend so much time in clubs?”

Patrick shrugs. “I like to dance.”

Pete has a feeling it’s not that simple, but he isn’t going to push it. He has a fleeting memory, a decade long gone, of pressing his back against a solid chest, the slide of large hands down his arms, the taste of salt-sweat, the feeling of music and blood pumping through his body simultaneously. Then his mind flicks to Patrick’s arms around his neck, Patrick’s hips moving against his, Patrick’s lips, Patrick’s lips, Patrick’s lips —

“You guys gonna sit here all night, or are you gonna dance?” Gabe’s voice, unmistakably loud, cuts in.

“You go ahead,” Pete says, making a shooing motion at Patrick. “I’m not much of a dancer.”

Pete half expects Patrick to protest, but he doesn’t. He lets Gabe pull him up and lead him to the dance floor. Pete watches them with interest.

The height difference is something to behold. Gabe is a whole head taller than Patrick, but they seem accustomed to working around it. Gabe bends his legs slightly while Patrick moves his hips and ass close to Gabe’s crotch. There’s a marked difference in the way they act around each other. Pete can tell Patrick is just having a good time, dancing close to Gabe. He’s watching Gabe’s eyes trail over his body, enjoying the attention and focusing on giving Gabe a show. 

It doesn’t take long for Gabe’s resolve to crumble. He gets his hands on Patrick’s waist and pulls him close. Patrick keeps his arms up, trying to keep dancing while Gabe holds him against his body. Gabe leans his head down and buries his nose in Patrick’s hair. His eyes are closed, and he’s holding Patrick tightly against him, like he doesn’t want to let go. Pete looks away, suddenly feeling like he’s witnessing something too intimate.

He tries to focus on his phone, until he sees Vicky approaching, drink in hand. She sits down next to him.

“Ugh, I need a break,” she says. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

“Aren’t you younger than Patrick?”

“I’m 25, but I’m an old lady at heart. I just want to be home with my cats and my crochet.”

Pete gives her a skeptical look. “Do you even know how to crochet?”

“No, but I do have cats, and I _am_ getting tired.”

Pete looks at Patrick grinding against Gabe. “I feel you. I kind of want to be home with my dog right now.”

Vicky follows his gaze. “I’ll never get used to that. They’re, like, best friends.”

“Gabe has always had a thing for him, though, right?”

“I always kind of thought he did, but Patrick’s not the kind of guy you want to have a thing for.” She catches herself, eyes widening. “Uh, no offense.”

“Don’t worry about it. Patrick and I are just friends.”

“Uh-huh.” She picks up her drink and stirs it with the mini straw. “Anyway, I didn’t know they were… doing stuff. _That’s_ pretty new.” She gestures at them on the dance floor before taking a long sip of her drink, draining almost the entire glass.

Pete tries really hard to let it go, but he finally gives in and asks, “Why isn’t Patrick the kind of guy you want to have a thing for? I know he said he doesn’t want to settle down, but is that it?”

Vicky raises her eyebrows. “He told you that?”

Pete nods.

“Wow. I’m proud of him. He’s showing growth.”

She didn’t answer his question, but Pete decides to file Patrick away as Not Happening Anytime Soon and focus on a more immediate problem. “Patrick says you’re an artist.” 

“Trying to be. The record store gig supports it more often than not.”

“I’m looking into opening a gallery, but Patrick said you need a studio. What would you think about having studio space in exchange for teaching art classes?”

“Me? A teacher?” She points to herself, as though Pete doesn’t know who she could be referring to.

“Yes, you, ya dweeb.”

“I don’t know…” She sits there for a minute, her eyes on Hayley, who’s dancing with Cassie while Andy just kind of stands there nodding his head to the beat. “I wouldn’t have to pay actual rent?”

“Nope.”

“You don’t even have this thing up and running yet, though, right?”

“It’s in the envisioning stage.”

“Which means you basically just have the idea and that’s it.”

“Pretty much.”

Vicky laughs. “I’ll keep it in mind, and you tell me when you have something solid, okay?”

“Deal.”

They talk until Vicky downs the rest of her drink and gets pulled back onto the dance floor by Hayley. Pete watches them, their wide smiles reflecting onto his own face, until Patrick makes his way back to him.

Pete doesn’t look at Patrick as he sits down next to him, but he can feel his eyes boring into him. When he finally looks over, Patrick catches him on the chin with his hand. He rubs his fingers over Pete’s stubble. “I like this scruff you’ve got going on.”

“Thanks,” Pete says. “It’s a distinct style I like to call _giving up_.”

“Hey,” Patrick says. “Everything’s gonna be okay.” And he looks so sincere that Pete almost believes him. Then he ruins it by saying, “You know what would help? Dancing!”

“I’m pretty sure that would just make me feel even worse about myself.”

“You’re not gonna dance at all?” He pouts.

“I don’t think it would be a good idea, to be honest.”

“Why not?”

Pete glances at Gabe and then frowns at Patrick. “Are you still trying?”

“What?”

“You said you tried to make things work with him,” he nods at Gabe, “but you couldn’t. Are you _still_ trying?”

Patrick shrugs. “He knows how I feel.”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s into you. You need to be careful with him.”

“Then take me home with you.”

“What?”

“Make me forget about him. Take me home with you.”

Pete considers Patrick for a moment, and then says, slow and measured, “What kind of fucked up logic is that?”

“Don’t overthink it, Pete.”

The problem is, Pete overthinks everything. Pete _considers_ everything. But where has that gotten him? Jobless and car-less. Maybe he should allow himself not to think for this one single night, and then he can go back to trying to manage the two different versions of himself that are warring with each other. Maybe tonight he can just be the guy that Patrick wants to go home with, as fucked up as it is.

⭗⭗⭗⭗

The El doesn’t run this late, so they get an Uber, and Pete refuses to think about the irony of the situation while Patrick’s hands slide over his body in the backseat.

They stumble into Pete’s house, pulling at each other’s clothes as soon as the door slams shut. Patrick is down to his undershirt and Pete’s belt is unbuckled when Bear comes trotting into the living room, his nails clacking on the wooden floor.

“Shit,” Pete says, pulling away from Patrick. “Hey, buddy. You need to go outside?”

Bear grumbles.

“Sorry, I gotta take care of him first. Just, uh, make yourself comfortable.”

When Pete comes back inside, Bear trotting behind him, Patrick is sitting on the couch, rubbing his hands against his thighs awkwardly. He looks small and vulnerable, more like how Pete imagined him that first night in the backseat of his car. It’s disarming, the way his huge eyes scan Pete’s face before dropping to Bear.

“Hey, I owe you a belly rub, don’t I?” Patrick drops to his knees on the floor, and Bear trots over to him, a string of slobber trailing from his jowls.

“Gross, bud,” Pete says, but Patrick just laughs and pats Bear’s sides.

Pete makes his way to the kitchen slowly, letting Bear have his moment with Patrick before he rustles a treat bag. Bear lopes in within seconds, and Pete tosses him a rawhide. He snatches it and curls up in his bed, chewing contentedly. Satisfied for the time being, Pete goes back into the living room and sits down on the edge of the couch. Patrick is still sitting on the floor. He looks up at Pete. “He’s really cute,” he says, smiling. 

“ _You’re_ really cute,” Pete says. 

Patrick laughs, and Pete’s eyes move to his mouth — those ridiculous red lollipop lips.

Patrick maneuvers between Pete’s legs, sitting up on his knees, and Pete grabs his chin, tilting his head up to look into the blue-green depths of his eyes. He leans down until their mouths meet, and Pete feels the electric shockwaves of desire overtake him. They’re alone here — no driver watching from a rearview mirror, no risk of anyone interrupting them, no friends-with-benefits dancing in a club mere feet away. Pete has Patrick all to himself, and he wants to taste every inch of him, but he knows he isn’t going to last long enough for that.

Pete lets Patrick strip him as they kiss, lifting his arms for him to pull his shirt over his head and moaning as Patrick releases his leaking cock from his jeans. He bucks up into Patrick’s hand as he pumps him while they kiss.

Patrick pulls back to look at Pete, and Pete brushes his fingertips over Patrick’s chin, already rubbed raw and red from Pete’s stubble. He leans back against the couch and lifts his hips slightly, his cock solid and twitching. Patrick leans down and mouths along Pete’s dick, spreading his precome along the shaft. Pete groans and runs his fingers through Patrick’s hair, barely managing to stop himself from pulling. He’s already thrusting, lost in the thought of Patrick taking his entire dick into his mouth, but Patrick moves down and sucks his balls instead, eliciting an embarrassingly loud gasp from Pete.

“Fuck,” Pete breathes. Patrick looks up and smiles at Pete like he’s pleased. His eyes are heavy-lidded, and his mouth is slick. He looks smug and beautiful.

“You’re good at this,” Pete says, his voice gravelly. “You like it?”

“Do I like sucking your dick?” Patrick asks. His voice is firm and loud, and Pete realizes that what Patrick likes is being in control. He knows he has Pete completely unraveled, half naked on the couch below him with his dick in Patrick’s hand. He’s completely at Patrick’s mercy, and they both know it. A mutual understanding is happening here, and Pete is ready to sign on the dotted line. It might be the hottest thing he’s ever seen. He doesn’t answer Patrick. Instead, he gives him what he wants. He moans and arches his back.

Patrick leans down and swallows Pete’s entire dick, and Pete’s body ignites. Pete grabs the edge of the couch with both hands as his hips buck, and Patrick pushes him down with one hand, his other hand wrapped around Pete’s cock. He sucks and pumps, and Pete just goes with it, completely letting go. It doesn’t take long for him to come, hard and pulsing down Patrick’s throat. 

Patrick stands up and bends over Pete. He licks inside Pete’s mouth, and Pete tastes the tang of his own come as Patrick thrusts his tongue deeper. Pete feels dizzy, lying there while Patrick kisses him deep and hard.

Patrick straightens up and strips as Pete watches, boneless and sated. His shirt ruffles his hair as he pulls it over his head. Pete’s eyes move down over Patrick’s torso hungrily, and Patrick watches him as he slowly undoes his pants. Pete takes in the pale tenderness of his throat, the light wisps of hair scattered across his chest, the softness of his belly. Then Patrick strips off his pants and briefs, and Pete swallows, his mouth filling with saliva. Patrick’s cock juts up against his stomach, thick and red-hot at the tip. Pete feels desperation rip through his body. Patrick settles himself over Pete, straddling him, and Pete takes his cock in his hand.

Patrick rests his forehead against Pete’s, panting. He reaches down between his legs as Pete strokes him, and Pete curses his refractory period. He wants to flip him over, push his legs back, finger him open, and fuck him. So he tells him that, and Patrick moans and trembles in response. “You want me, baby?”

“Yeah, I want you.”

“You want to fuck my tight little ass?”

“Yeah. Fuck.”

“Say it.”

“I want to fuck your tight little ass.”

Patrick wraps his hand around Pete’s, and they bring him to the edge together. Patrick spills onto Pete’s stomach and chest, cursing softly and jerking his hips. Pete pushes Patrick’s hair off of his forehead with his free hand and watches his face as he comes, stroking him through it until he collapses and buries his face in Pete’s neck.

Patrick gets up and goes into the kitchen, leaving Pete feeling like a stranger in his own home. He comes back with paper towels and uses them to wipe the come off of Pete’s chest and abdomen.

“Does this count as a belly rub?” He smiles, his face flushed.

Pete laughs. “You were exempt from belly rubs when you put your mouth on my dick, but we’ll say this counts anyway.”

Once he’s cleaned up, Pete kicks his jeans off and lies down on the couch, pulling Patrick against his chest. “So, what was that?” he asks. “You like being in control?”

Pete feels Patrick’s shoulders move against his chest as he shrugs. “I like sex. I get a little carried away sometimes.”

“It was hot.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm,” Pete mutters and kisses Patrick’s forehead.

“Want to do it again in a bit?”

“Fuck yes.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude (Smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm back again, and so soon! I'm gonna level with you: there isn't much to this chapter besides smut. The next chapter will delve much deeper into the story, but since I need time to flesh it out and I don't know how long that's going to take, I figured I'd give you a gift to tide you over in the meantime. A gift of shameless, shameless smut. Hope you like it!

Pete has thoughts.

The first thought, the one that’s been pushing against his skull day after day and night after sleepless night, is Patrick. There’s a lot to unpack there. Pete is avoiding it for now. He’ll come back to it later.

The second thought, and the one that probably should be foremost in his mind, is his lack of a job. And a car. And any sort of direction in life. He’s an economics major, and he’s beginning to see that as a fatal flaw in his personhood. He spent four years studying a subject he didn’t care about followed by a decade working for people who didn’t care about him, and he has nothing to show for it. Except Bear. He managed to raise a dog to adulthood. That has to count for something, right?

He closes his eyes and sifts through his mind for one of his favorite memories — a trip to London, the Tate Modern, early fall, walking through the Takis exhibit and taking in the metal sculptures. The Greek artist picked up pieces of bombs left from the aftermath of war and repurposed them, creating beauty out of destruction. The sculptures made music using electromagnetic waves, their otherworldly tunes ringing through the exhibition space, and as ridiculous as it sounds — he _knows_ it’s ridiculous, okay? — it awakened something inside of him. 

As soon as Pete got back to the States, he bought a membership to the Chicago Art Institute, then found his way to Lakeview and fell in love with Chicago’s DIY art scene. He bought two graffiti-inspired pieces and hung them in his house. He would suck Banksy’s dick on the spot in exchange for silence if he ever ran into him. Being an Uber driver gave him the opportunity to relish that world even more, driving around Lakeview, chauffeuring artists, breathing in the city instead of being suffocated by a cubicle, feeling like he was part of something even when he was ignored.

The final thought, always in the back of his mind, is what his parents would think of him. Never has that thought felt more imposing than now.

Back to the first thought.

Pete looks at Patrick lying in bed next to him, his chest rising and falling as he sleeps. He scoots closer and wraps his arm around him, places a kiss on his temple, another one on the corner of his mouth. Patrick stirs and moans softly.

Pete will definitely revisit his thoughts. Later. When there isn’t a naked man in his bed.

“Mmf,” says the naked man.

“How’s your head?” Pete asks softly.

Patrick grumbles.

“Okay, you seem to be incapable of making words,” Pete says, “and I don’t know if it’s because of the time of day or alcohol-induced damage. Either way, I’m worried about you.”

Patrick groans. “Time s’it?”

“Ten.”

“Morn’n?”

“Uh, yes. You did not sleep an entire day.”

Patrick groans again.

“Are you always like this in the morning, or is it just the hangover?”

Patrick grunts out a noise that sounds vaguely like “Always.”

“Noted. Hang on,” Pete says as he gets out of bed.

Patrick turns over and buries his face in the pillow while Pete pulls on sweatpants. He hopes it really is just the morning combined with the amount of alcohol Patrick drank last night and that he isn’t having regrets about coming home with Pete. He can’t help but think that would be kind of fucked up since it was Patrick’s suggestion in the first place, but they were both probably much drunker than they should’ve been, and that could make things all kinds of complicated.

Pete puts on a pot of coffee and takes care of Bear, who looks almost as sleepy as Patrick. After Bear does his business outside, he shuffles directly to his bed in the dining room. He usually sleeps in Pete’s bed with him, curled up close to Pete’s side, but he made himself scarce last night and slept in his dog bed, probably because of all the sex.

“Sorry about all the sex, dude. You know how it is.”

Bear looks up at him without lifting his head from his paws.

“Actually, I guess you don’t know how it is. Sorry about that, too, bud.”

When he gets back to his bedroom, a mug of coffee in each hand, Patrick is sitting up, looking bleary-eyed but more coherent.

“Do you need cream or sugar?”

Patrick shakes his head as he takes the mug from Pete and sips. “Thank you. This is nice.”

“He speaks in full sentences! Coffee really is a miracle drug.”

“You’re hilarious. Has anybody ever told you that?”

Pete gets back into bed, careful not to spill his coffee, and sits cross-legged next to Patrick. “I get the feeling you’re one of those people who can’t function before noon without coffee.”

“Really? What gave you that impression?” Patrick gives Pete a mock-incredulous look, then smiles.

“I guess the hangover probably doesn’t help, though.”

“The hangover doesn’t make much difference, honestly. I’m used to it.”

Pete nods. He wonders exactly how much time Patrick spends in clubs and bars.

They sit in silence for a bit, sipping their coffee. 

Pete’s mind wanders until it latches onto another thought. His stomach clenches, regret mixing nastily with his hangover. _Gabe, eyes closed, holding Patrick tight to his body._ Guilt settles in, sinking deep into his bloodstream, and Patrick must see it on his face because he says, “Are you okay?”

He looks at Patrick despondently, and for a minute he thinks he won’t bother bringing it up. Patrick is beautiful and fun and sharp and sexy. He has the sudden urge to hold him close to his chest like Gabe. Wouldn’t that be enough?

“You didn’t answer my question last night,” Pete says, shifting his eyes down to his coffee mug, warm and comforting in his hands.

“What question?”

“What’s going on with you and Gabe?”

Patrick sighs. “I’ve told Gabe I need time to think.”

“Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“So there’s still a possibility that you could make things work with him.”

Patrick doesn’t answer. He frowns, and Pete has to hand it to him — if this is an act, he’s doing a damn good job because he looks genuinely confused.

“You know he’s pretty far gone for you, right? Anyone can look at him and see that.”

“You don’t know Gabe,” Patrick says, a measure of force behind his words, “and you don’t know our history.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” Pete should stop there. He really should. But jealousy flares in him, and he’s angry at himself for feeling it and at Patrick for making him feel it. He spits out, “Are you fucking him?”

Patrick hesitates. “Not often.”

Pete barks out a laugh, incredulous. “Not often? What, like, every other Tuesday?”

“Why does any of this matter? Do I _belong_ to you now?”

It’s infuriating that Pete can’t argue with that. Not only is the notion ridiculous, but Patrick has made it clear that they’re just friends. Still, he can’t get their conversation in his car out of his head. Patrick said they had a connection, and Pete feels it every time they’re together. It’s undeniable. Being with Patrick is like a puzzle, and if Pete can just piece it together the right way, then everything will click into place. He’s frustrated that he’s made a wrong move and let his jealousy show.

“Of course you don’t belong to me. I just — I don’t usually do casual, especially when there’s someone else involved.”

“So this was a one-time thing, then?” He sees the disappointment on Patrick’s face as he looks at him and then quickly looks away.

This is one of those dreaded crossroads moments. 

Option A: tell Patrick yes, this was a one-time thing because Pete absolutely cannot do this without catching feelings. In fact, he’s pretty sure feelings have already been caught. 

Option B: tell Patrick no, he would like to do this again, actually, but he needs clear parameters and a guarantee that no one is going to end up hurt.

Pete goes with Secret Option C: set his coffee down on his side table, lean over, and kiss Patrick square on the mouth.

He doesn’t stop, even though they could both probably stand to brush their teeth. He parts Patrick’s lips with his tongue, deepening the kiss, and slides closer to him. He takes Patrick’s coffee from his hands and reaches over to set it on the table next to his side of the bed. Then he leans back against the headboard and pulls Patrick onto his lap. Patrick adjusts his legs so that he's straddling him, moving his hips back and forth a little as they kiss. Pete slides his hands down his back and grips his ass firmly in both hands. He feels desperate to keep Patrick here — in his arms, in his bed, in his life. He's not ready to give this up yet, not after only one night.

"You should stay here," he says, against his better judgement, with Patrick's lips on his neck. "Hang out with me today."

"Is ‘hang out’ code for have lots of sex?" Patrick sucks Pete's earlobe into his mouth, and Pete’s eyes roll back in his head.

"No," he breathes, although there’s a small, very horny part of him that wants to say yes. "I do actually like hanging out with you."

Patrick sits up and looks at him, considering. "I have to go by the record store later."

Pete runs his hands up Patrick’s sides. "Okay."

"You could come with?"

“Definitely.” Pete smiles and nods. He cups Patrick's face in his hands and pulls him back down for another kiss.

They make out lazily, but somewhere along the way Pete's sweatpants are removed and Patrick is stroking him. Breathing heavily, Pete looks at Patrick’s face. He’s softer somehow in the morning, just going with it instead of focusing so much on showing off and being sexy. That combined with his dick in Patrick’s grasp is turning Pete into putty in Patrick’s hands.

Showering is in the back of Pete’s mind, but he doesn’t want to stop or move. He can barely register the thought of flipping Patrick over onto his back before Patrick is grabbing his legs and sliding him down the bed.

“Oh,” says Pete, blinking up at Patrick on top of him.

Patrick smirks. Pete opens his legs, wanting, and Patrick settles between them. Pete feels Patrick’s heavy cock brush alongside his, too much and not enough all at once. Patrick leans down to suck one of Pete’s nipples into his mouth as he grinds slowly against him. Pete runs his hands down Patrick’s back and grabs his ass while canting his hips at the same time, trying desperately to pull Patrick in closer, wanting him inside. 

Patrick buries his nose in Pete’s neck and laughs breathlessly. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Please,” Pete begs, squeezing Patrick’s ass.

He watches as Patrick reaches over to grab the lube and a condom from the bedside table, where they were left the night before. Patrick sits back on the bed, cock in hand, and looks Pete in the eyes as he puts on the condom and smoothes lube over himself. He places the pad of his finger on Pete’s hole, circling it, but Pete reaches down and grabs his hand.

“Don’t,” says Pete, looking Patrick in the eyes. “I can take it.”

“Are you sure?” Patrick breathes, eyes wide and beautiful.

Pete nods and lifts his legs, opening himself up as much as he can for Patrick. He takes a deep breath and grits his teeth as he feels Patrick’s dick breach him, feels the burn of the stretch as he pushes inside. He wants this. He needs to feel a good kind of pain. Once Patrick is fully seated inside of him, Pete breathes out slowly and lets his legs relax.

He looks at Patrick above him, the sunlight streaming through the window and catching in his hair, glimmering in his eyes. Pete nods once, quick and sharp, and then grunts as Patrick drives his dick into him. He pulls Patrick down against his chest, feeling his breath against his neck and on his cheek.

Patrick lifts back up and moves Pete’s legs back to get more purchase, then presses his hands to Pete’s chest as he fucks him. Pete feels the tip of Patrick’s dick hit his prostate, and he’s gone. He tries to tell Patrick how good it is, but he moans unintelligibly instead. Patrick thrusts, hard and deep and slow, and then somehow Pete is being turned over onto his knees.

Pete feels the slide of Patrick’s dick pushing into his stretched hole, easier this time. Patrick drapes himself over Pete’s back and wraps his arm around his chest. He pulls him back onto his dick as he thrusts.

“Yeah,” Pete grunts. “Harder.”

Patrick bears down, fucking harder and faster, their bodies sliding together, slick with heat and sweat. He lifts up and puts his hands on Pete’s sides, his thrusts getting more erratic until he slows and pushes in once, twice, three times, and then comes. His grip on Pete’s waist tightens as he moans, filling the condom inside Pete.

Pete feels his own orgasm cresting before Patrick gets his hand on his dick, stroking him through it. He closes his eyes and sees the blues and golds of Patrick’s eyes shining in the sunlight.

They collapse on the bed together, panting. Pete feels the sting of Patrick’s fingernails on his sides.

“I really think we should shower,” Pete says once he catches his breath.

“After that? Yeah, we really, really should.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hi!](https://lyssness.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Art!Pete](https://static01.nyt.com/images/2016/12/24/arts/23SHOW-WALL2/23SHOW-WALL2-jumbo.jpg)
> 
> Songs I listened to while writing this chapter and which also kind of fit the story:  
> [Caught in the Middle - Paramore](https://open.spotify.com/track/27zJBz0YnuZO69U69z96vd)  
> [+5 STAR+ - CL](https://open.spotify.com/track/0RB0E9wj4DjaFDOYPEMeps)

“Appetite for Destruction is not _just_ hair metal.”

“Ooh, have I hit a nerve?” Patrick grins wickedly.

Pete presses on, undeterred. “The whole point of that album — the reason it’s so good — is that it bridged the gap between glam and punk. You can’t just lump it in with hair metal. It’s rock, it’s bluesy, it’s punk, it’s metal. It touches on a lot of genres, and it’s fucking brilliant.”

“Okay, okay. I’m obviously not as big a Guns N’ Roses fan as you.” Patrick tilts his head, considering. “You know, I can give you a job here if you want it.”

Pete’s brain stutters to a stop. “Wait, really?”

“You’ve proven you know enough about music through the conversations we’ve had. I know you’re a hard worker. And we could use another person in the store, especially to cover the genres you’re into.”

“It would only be temporary,” Pete says slowly, feeling like he’s encroaching on Patrick’s goodwill, “until I can get my car fixed or find something else.”

“That works,” Patrick nods. He runs his hand over the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “I can’t, um — It doesn’t pay that well.”

Pete shrugs. “Neither did Uber.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. You have to stay afloat.”

“Can I ask you a serious question?”

“Go ahead.” Pete absently picks up a copy of Black Sabbath’s Master of Reality, the bassline of Solitude thrumming in his head.

“Why don’t you want to go back to the job you had before Uber — your career?”

“Is this an interview question?”

“If you’d prefer to think of it that way, then sure.”

Pete takes a few seconds to think. It sounds too simple, laughable even, but he says it anyway. “Because I fucking hated it.”

Patrick laughs. “Okay then.”

“I know that’s an oversimplification,” Pete continues, “but it wasn’t me. I understand the concepts. I spent four years studying them. But I wasn’t interested in applying them, so most of the time I just… didn’t. And then, when you find out some rich asshole has been pocketing money that could’ve gone to your paycheck or, I don’t know, to fix the fucking pothole-infested roads or something, it kind of turns you off of the whole thing.”

“Stick it to the man?”

“I’m sure not _every_ financial institution is evil,” Pete says, but his tone belies his uncertainty.

“I think they’re inherently evil, but that doesn’t mean everyone who works for them is. But more power to you for getting out. I promise I won’t withhold pay, and I don’t dodge taxes.”

“You’re not gonna Hallmark-movie me, are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“In those cheesy Hallmark movies my mom watches, the main character always leaves her big corporate job in the city for a small-business owner who helps her see there’s more to life.”

Patrick laughs. “The small-business life is fucking rough sometimes. And I’m not, like, a farmhand with a prize-winning apple pie recipe. We _are_ still in Chicago. Besides,” Patrick points to himself cheekily, “commitment issues, remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” Pete says, rolling his eyes. “How could I forget about those?”

They make their way up to Vicky and Andy, who are having a heated argument about metalcore at the counter.

“Guys, meet your new coworker,” Patrick interrupts.

“Oh, hey!” Andy looks genuinely pleased. “You bought Baroness last time you were in here, right?”

“On Patrick’s recommendation,” Pete says.

“How’d you like it?”

“Good stuff. Kinda stoner-ish, kinda hardcore, but really progressive. Reminded me a lot of Mastodon — one of my favorite bands.”

Andy looks at Patrick. “I like him. Well done.”

Patrick smiles, his eyes on Pete. “I like him, too.”

“Yeah, I bet you do,” says Vicky, waggling her eyebrows.

“Okay, we’ll have none of that,” Patrick says, his cheeks reddening. “This is a professional business establishment.”

“Since when have we ever been professional?” Andy shouts over his shoulder as he walks away to help a beckoning customer.

“I’m glad you’re here, actually,” Vicky says. “I was gonna ask Patrick for your number.”

Pete raises an eyebrow. “Why does that sound ominous?”

“Because it’s Vicky,” says Patrick.

Vicky gives him a dark look. “It’s entirely innocent and some would say helpful, even. I was going to ask you to meet a couple of artist friends of mine. Could be good for your business aspirations.”

“Um, fucking _yes,_ ” Pete says. “I’d love that.”

“If Patrick will let me steal you away, we can go meet them in a bit, once my shift is over. They’re not far from here.”

“Pete’s free to go wherever he pleases, no stealing required,” says Patrick.

Pete nods enthusiastically, excitement and nerves swirling in his stomach. “Absolutely. Thanks, Vicks.”

Vicky narrows her eyes. “When did we agree it was okay to call me Vicks?”

Pete stammers, “Uh, I, uh…” He looks to Patrick for help, but he just shrugs.

“I’m just messing with you, bro. I don’t give a fuck. Vicks is fine. I kinda like it, actually.” She turns to Patrick and punches him in the shoulder playfully. “Patrick, why don’t you call me Vicks?”

“Like the VapoRub?” Patrick asks.

“You can’t deny I’m a soothing presence in this store.”

“If you call giving death stares to customers who buy White Lies instead of Interpol soothing, then I guess so.”

“If you’re going to buy a Joy Division knockoff, at least choose the _good_ Joy Division knockoff,” Vicky mutters.

“You guys are aware you’re pretentious as fuck, right?” Pete chimes in.

“It’s a requirement to work here,” Vicky shrugs. “So I hate to break it to you, but…”

“And you’ll get more pretentious the longer you work here,” Patrick says solemnly. “But first, we need to get your paperwork done.” He gestures for Pete to follow him into the back room.

Patrick closes the door behind them, and Pete looks around. They’re in a messy room packed full of boxes filled with records. There’s a wide metal desk scattered with more records, manila folders, and papers, all surrounding a computer that looks like it can do the bare minimum. A black office chair sits on the other side of the desk, and a ripped brown leather couch is pushed up against the wall. Pete starts to move toward the chair, but Patrick grabs his arm and whirls him around to face him.

Patrick turns and pointedly locks the door. When he turns back to Pete, there’s heat in his expression. He’s wearing that fedora again, a conscious choice which seems to be ubiquitous with the time he spends at True Blue Records, almost like a uniform.

Pete kills the moment by lifting the hat from Patrick’s head and saying, “So if I get more pretentious the longer I work here, does that mean I’ll start wearing one of these?”

“No,” Patrick says as he snatches the hat out of Pete’s hands and places it back on his head. “This signifies that I’m the boss.”

Pete laughs. “Are you going for a mob boss look? You know you look like the furthest thing from that, right?”

“Mm, I’m much more attractive,” Patrick says. He kisses Pete roughly, and Pete responds, parting his lips for Patrick’s tongue. But when Patrick starts to drop to his knees, Pete catches him by his elbows.

“Whoa, whoa, wait a second,” Pete says, lifting Patrick back up to eye level. Pete raises his eyebrows. “Is this part of the job application?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, his eyes on Pete’s lips. “This is the human relations portion.”

“Patrick,” Pete says softly, “why don’t we give it a rest for a bit?”

Patrick pulls back, brow furrowed. “What?”

“We’ve had, like, a _lot_ of sex in the past 24 hours,” Pete says weakly. “Maybe we should just, you know, do this paperwork?” He hears how it sounds coming out of his mouth, and he can’t quite believe it. It’s like he’s having an out-of-body experience, watching himself speak words that he has never fathomed saying to a person he’s this attracted to. He never would have imagined he has this much willpower. He feels like some kind of superhero. Captain Celibacy.

“Are you seriously turning down sex in favor of paperwork right now? Maybe I _am_ in a Hallmark movie. There’s never any sex in those, is there?”

“Do you come on to all of your employees in the back room right after you hire them?” 

“No,” Patrick says, and then, “Shit. I’m sorry.”

He looks utterly dejected, and Pete’s expression softens. “Hey,” he says, looking into Patrick’s eyes, “I like you, and I want to do things with you. Not _just_ sex things.”

“You want to talk about the weather,” Patrick says slowly.

Pete nods.

“And do paperwork.”

“I want to just... _be_ with you,” Pete says, and he hopes the meaning behind those words bleeds through like a pentimento. _I want to be in a relationship with you. I want to watch movies on the couch with you until you fall asleep. I want to argue over the grocery list with you. I want to figure out where your sharp edges are and hold you until they become smooth. I want you to give me a chance._

Patrick just stares. Pete can see the wheels turning in his head, but his expression is carefully guarded. He turns away and walks toward the desk. “Alright then, let’s do some paperwork.”

⭗⭗⭗⭗

When everything is finished and filed away, Pete leaves with Vicky. Her friend’s loft is just a few blocks away, so they walk together. Vicky links her arm with Pete’s and says, “Let’s make people think we’re a straight couple. Also, I’m cold.”

Pete’s teeth chatter as he pushes close into Vicky’s side. “How long have you and Hayley been together?”

“Three years, but we’ve known each other much longer.”

“Yeah? How’d you meet?”

“We were friends in high school. Not, like, super close, but we were in the same circles. I kept my distance because I had a giant crush on her, but I wasn’t out and I thought she was straight. Fast-forward a few years later, we had a class together in college and got really close. Turns out, she had a crush on me in high school, too.”

“That might be the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Vicky smiles, then grows serious. “I would fucking die for her, dude.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second.”

They walk in silence for a bit, their breath visible in the frigid winter air.

“I can _hear_ your internal debate over whether to ask me about Patrick,” Vicky finally says.

Pete sighs. “Is it a fruitless endeavor, Vicks?”

“A couple of years ago, I would’ve said yes. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Has he ever been in a long-term relationship?”

“Yes, but Patrick’s experiences with relationships are… pure shit, to be frank.” She doesn’t elaborate, and Pete doesn’t press her. He gets it — that’s for Patrick to tell. But one of Patrick’s texts flashes in his mind: _After I got a restraining order._

“So,” Pete keeps his voice careful and measured, “do you think it’s lack of trust? He’s worried he’ll get hurt?”

“I think that’s part of it. He works very hard on being Patrick Stump — the record store aesthetic, hipster boots and cardigans, always ready to party at the drop of his fedora. You haven’t really seen the extent of it yet. Maybe your comfort zone is being at home chilling with pizza and a movie, but Patrick’s is being out around people drinking himself into oblivion so he doesn’t have to be alone with his thoughts.”

“I kind of picked up on something like that, yeah. But why won’t he give Gabe a chance? I feel like, if anyone could change that, it would be him.”

“Patrick doesn’t date. He fucks around. It just so happens that his current fuck buddies are two really good guys who both want more from him. The guys he usually picks up are much more dubious and less inclined to stick around. They’re definitely not his friends.” 

Pete doesn’t want to think about the implications that come with Patrick picking up dubious men. “But is he capable of having feelings for either of us, or are we both just wasting our fucking time?” Pete is frustrated. Vicky is being forthcoming, but she’s still dodging the one question Pete wants answered most of all.

“The only person who can tell you that is Patrick.”

“Okay, but humor me. What’s your expert opinion?”

Vicky hesitates. “I think he’s capable of having feelings for both of you, and that scares me.”

It hits Pete like a sucker punch to the gut. Pete has never had feelings for more than one person at a time. His relationships have always felt all-consuming. His love filled him up and then often spilled over, pushing people away and out of his life. He can’t imagine what it would be like to have room for anyone else.

“I really don’t know, though,” Vicky says. “Fuck, stop asking me about this!” She says it playfully, nudging him with her shoulder, but Pete can tell it’s a difficult subject for her. She and Patrick are close, and she’s frustrated with her friend’s behavior but doesn’t want to betray his trust at the same time.

They don’t talk about it for the rest of the walk. The conversation turns to music instead, and Pete can easily see why she and Patrick are friends. He’s kind of falling into platonic love with her himself.

They finally arrive at a residential building. It’s nondescript on the outside, but when they get to the loft, it’s full of exposed brick and distressed wood and natural light. It’s hipster as fuck, and Pete can’t help but love it. A woman with jet-black hair pulled back into a messy ponytail is standing in front of a large canvas with her arms folded and her chin in her hand. There’s a heavily tattooed and pierced man lounging on the other side of the canvas, naked but for a blanket draped artfully over his funtime parts.

“Hello, gorgeous,” Vicky says in an exaggerated British accent, and the woman answers her in a real one.

“Vicky, so good to see you.” As she walks over and gives Vicky a hug, the man stands up, letting the blanket fall to reveal shorts underneath. Pete is a little disappointed.

Vicky hugs him, as well, and then introduces them. “Pete, this is Bebe Rexha and Travie McCoy. They’re part of an art collective here in Lakeview. I told them you’re interested in opening a gallery. Guys, this is Pete Wentz.”

Pete suddenly feels overwhelmed. This is networking. He’s _networking,_ and he’s barely thought about how he’s going to make this feverish dream of his into a reality. He doesn’t have an elevator pitch. He doesn’t even have a mortgage in his own name.

He’s stammering a greeting when Travie pulls him into a hug, crushing him against his bare chest. He smells amazing, like sandalwood and musk and hopes and dreams.

“Good to meet you, little dude,” says Travie. His smile is warm and friendly, and Pete feels himself relax.

Bebe is more stoic than Travie. She doesn’t make a move to hug him, instead just raising her chin slightly as she says, “Nice to meet you.” She has a hypnotizing quality. He can’t look away, and he isn’t sure he wants to. “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? A glass of wine?”

“Oh, no, thank you. It’s great to meet you both. I have to say upfront, though, I don’t really have anything solid yet as far as the gallery goes.” Pete tries to stamp down his nervousness. Why are these people making him so nervous? Probably because they’re gorgeous and talented. And because his future might very well depend on them. You know, nothing major.

“Vicky has told us you’re still in the — how did she put it? — envisioning stage.” Pete feels his face heat up. “So it’s okay, we’re not expecting anything solid from you. That’s what we’re here for — to provide some solidity. We’re a small group of artists right now, but we’re hoping to grow. Through collaboration, we’re able to reach a wide range of audiences for our work.” 

“And it would be beneficial for us to have a gallery that’s central to where we all live and work,” Travie says. “A chill place we can call ours.”

Pete nods, not sure what to say. He’s in over his head. All he can do is listen, heart beating hopeful against his chest.

Bebe continues, “We have a few high-profile donors in the city that keep us funded. If you’re interested, we can help you get your gallery started in exchange for your promise to let us exhibit our work regularly and allow us extra studio space when we need it.”

Pete discreetly pinches his own arm. He thinks he might be dreaming. “Vicky also says you’re a money guy,” Bebe goes on. “We need someone who can help us negotiate and navigate markets, along with space to exhibit and work. This would be a mutually beneficial relationship. You help us, you provide us with physical real estate, and we bring in the money.”

Pete _really_ thinks he’s dreaming. He manages to internally shake himself enough to remember what it’s like to have a big-boy conversation, and he says, “My biggest hurdle has been lack of contacts. I need artists, and an entire collective is honestly more than I could’ve hoped for.”

Bebe smiles. “Travie and I are a bit preoccupied at the moment, but I can see this being the start of something great for us. Shall we plan to meet for coffee soon and discuss this further?”

It takes everything in Pete not to literally jump up and down with excitement. He manages to contain himself long enough to work out the details of a meeting with Bebe.

“I look forward to working with you, Pete Wentz.” She runs her eyes up and down his body like she’s admiring a sculpture, and for the first time in a long while, Pete is okay with being on display.

⭗⭗⭗⭗

“Can I ask you something?” Patrick is sitting on Pete’s bed, propped up against the headboard next to Pete. They’re both relaxed and sated, legs intertwined, and Pete is rubbing his thumb along Patrick’s thigh. The skin around Patrick’s mouth is chapped red, courtesy of Pete’s beard, and his hair is sticking up in the back, courtesy of Pete fucking him through the mattress.

“Of course,” Pete says. He’s flipping through Netflix trying to find something to watch.

“Why does Bear sleep in the dining room?”

Pete laughs. “Because Bear runs this house, and he’s decided that the dining room is his lair. That’s where he does all of his plotting, probably. One day he’s gonna be the most powerful man in Hill Valley, and he’s gonna clean up this town.”

“Mayor Goldie Wilson from Back to the Future, right?”

Pete grins. “You’re so hot.”

“So he just likes it in there?”

“He kept dragging his dog bed in there. Every time I moved it, I’d eventually find it there again, so I just gave up and let it happen. He likes that room for some reason.”

“Maybe because it’s not used as much as the other rooms in the house. It feels like his.”

“Probably. He actually sleeps in here with me most nights, whenever you’re not here.”

“Why doesn’t he sleep in the bed when I’m here?” Patrick looks a little offended.

“Maybe because he doesn’t want to watch us fuck?”

“Good point.”

Pete sighs. “I feel kind of lost without my car.”

“You don’t really need a car, though, do you? I mean, you just miss what it represented for you.”

“Oh, we’re getting philosophical now.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Freedom. It represented freedom.”

Pete purses his lips as he thinks about it. “No, you’re right. I know it’s just a material thing, but it felt like my partner in crime, like we were hitting the mean streets of Chicago together, dodging responsibility.”

“You weren’t dodging responsibility.”

“Okay, we were traveling aimlessly down a dark road toward nowhere.”

“Very poetic," Patrick deadpans. "You’re too preoccupied with how you think your life should be. Sometimes life just _is,_ and that’s okay. We’re all forced to make choices before we’re really ready for them, so if you need time to figure things out, no one’s gonna fault you for that. No one who’s worth anything, anyway.”

Pete puts his arm around Patrick and pulls him closer. “Thank you,” he whispers, breathing in the lingering scents of sweat and sex in Patrick’s hair. 

Maybe Pete can be okay with this, taking a page out of Patrick’s book and just going with the flow. He’s having more fun than he’s had in years. Whatever it is that they’re each trying to run from doesn’t exist within the curves of their bodies as they move together. Pete is content with that for now. And he has an _art collective._ He has hope.

Patrick has given him a new job, new friends, new connections, and tied it all up nicely with a steady and reliable physical release.

Patrick doesn’t owe Pete his love. If anything, Pete owes Patrick whatever this is that they’re doing. There’s nothing wrong with two people whose lives have inexplicably collided taking full advantage of a chemical reaction. If that’s what fate has decided Pete needs, then maybe fate has a point.

Pete won’t ask for anything more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have a new president in the US! *dances*
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](https://lyssness.tumblr.com/). (I'm trying not to be, though.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if you got a notification that I posted two different works in one day. This is the only one that was actually updated. Thanks, AO3, for being weird.
> 
> [True Blue Patrick](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/761796090411876382/802618908225044580/tumblr_n70hxgXq251rleb3wo1_250.gif)
> 
> Songs:  
> [Play - Marmozets](https://open.spotify.com/track/5hk61Ob5f0kKxKoOGbroMm)  
> [Relief Next to Me - Tegan and Sara](https://open.spotify.com/track/0BiLwDKeYl59RQ1IfZQkPs)

Pete quickly grows accustomed to his life’s new norm. Working at True Blue Records means being given full access to Patrick’s world, and Pete realizes just how much everyone orbits around him. Patrick greets every DJ and local musician who walks into the store like an old friend. He’s in his element when he’s discussing music with them. They hand him mixes and demos and tell him they’re looking forward to his feedback, and they look like they really mean it, eyes wide and hopeful. Pete watches in awe. 

He slowly navigates this new world, ebbing and flowing like the tide. Much like those early text conversations when they were feeling each other out, sometimes Pete just sits back and watches Patrick perform, but other times, he tries to erode him a bit, to get at his core.

On a slow day, when Pete is stocking new releases and Patrick is hanging out watching him, Pete asks, “Why True Blue Records? You’ve never told me. Is there some big story behind it?”

Patrick’s mouth lifts into a slight smile, and his eyes shift to the floor. “Nah, it’s dumb.”

“You can’t really think that or you wouldn’t have gone with that name.” Pete smiles. “Come on. Tell me.”

Patrick sighs. “Alright. Have you ever seen Almost Famous?”

“A couple of times, yeah.”

“There’s a scene where Penny Lane is talking about the advice she gives the other groupies, and she says, ‘If you ever get lonely, just go to the record store and visit your friends.’” Patrick shrugs. “I don’t know. When I was growing up, my records felt like my best friends. Like true blue, you know?”

“That’s not dumb,” Pete says softly.

“It’s really fucking sad.”

“I’m sure a lot of people who come in here feel that way. It’s a good name.”

⭗⭗⭗⭗

Another evening, after closing, Patrick takes Pete to a dive bar. He’s giddy with excitement. “I really love this place,” he says, his cardigan sleeves stretched over his hands as he waves them in the air. “They have the worst fucking hot dogs in Chicago.” He laughs. “But it’s really secluded, and they have a bunch of old gaming consoles and one of the biggest beer selections in the city. It’s the best.” 

It feels different, somehow, than anything else he’s experienced with Patrick. The bartender greets them warmly and gives them their first beers free, because of course Patrick knows him well. Pete gets his ass kicked at Super Mario Kart but makes up for it with a brutal fatality in Mortal Kombat. Then Patrick gets up on the tiny stage and sings with a guitar borrowed from the barback, who seems all too happy to oblige.

The second Patrick opens his mouth to sing, Pete almost falls off his stool. It’s no wonder that everyone wants his opinion on their music. He’s playing complex chord progressions and singing over them without a hitch.

When he comes off the stage, Pete just stares at him. “Why the fuck are you playing like that  _ here?”  _ he asks incredulously. “No offense,” he says to the bartender, who just shrugs. “You should be playing at the House of Blues, at the very least.”

Patrick smiles shyly.

“Oh, don’t get all humble on me. That was fucking amazing!”

“No, I…” Patrick hesitates. “I’ve actually played at the House of Blues, a couple of times.”

“Oh. Well.” Pete sips his beer nonchalantly. “ _ Excuse  _ me.”

Patrick laughs. “I was in a band for a while. It was ages ago, I was just a kid, but we were pretty good.”

“House of Blues is more than  _ pretty _ good. Please tell me you were the lead singer.”

“I was, yeah. But I wasn’t cut out for it.”

“What the fuck do you mean? You should’ve seen yourself up there!”

“I was… different, back then.” Patrick winces. “Painfully shy and awkward. And I kind of had a short fuse. I wasn’t easy to get along with.”

“What happened?”

“I had a huge argument with one of the guys over the direction of the music. He didn’t like my lyrics, I didn’t like where he was taking the band’s sound. So I quit.”

“It was stressful for you.”

“Yeah, it was. It was  _ too _ stressful, too much pressure, and it wasn’t worth it if I couldn’t write the way I wanted or play the kind of music I wanted. I was doing what I loved at first, and then suddenly I wasn’t anymore, so what was the point?”

Pete nods. This is something that, on all levels, he can understand.

Patrick continues. “It looked like they were still on track to break through for a while, but eventually they fizzled out and broke up. I’m not going to say it had anything to do with my departure because that’s incredibly egotistical, but I think they put themselves in a box, and I did warn them against that.”

“It absolutely had something to do with your departure.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Stop it.”

“I’m serious! That kind of talent, you should be selling out venues all over the world.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I could handle fame on a large scale like that. People know me around here. That’s good enough for me.”

“Whatever you say, dude. I’m just saying, you have more talent in your pinky finger than I have in my entire body.”

“It was a lifetime ago.” Patrick’s face, which has steadily been growing redder, now resembles the neon red Stella Artois sign above the bar. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

“I like talking about you,” Pete shoves his shoulder against Patrick’s playfully. “You’re one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met.”

“You desperately need to meet more people.” Patrick waves the bartender over. “Hey, Tom. Tell Pete about the time you sailed across the Atlantic. He needs to hear something that’s actually interesting.” 

It strikes Pete then, why this feels so different. It feels like a real date. They’ve texted and talked after sex and hung out in clubs and bars and at the record store, but this is the first time Patrick has taken him anywhere. And sure, it’s just another bar — a shitty dive bar, at that, but it somehow feels like exactly what Pete needs. He’s seen the inside of enough fancy restaurants to know they’re not his scene. Here in this strange, tucked-away corner of the city where bartenders are sailors and Patrick is a man who gave something up, just like him — this is closer to what he’s looking for.

Later, they go out to the tiny courtyard behind the bar. There’s a group of teenagers hanging out there, skateboards propped up on the concrete wall. They don’t look old enough to drink, but they’re not inside the establishment, nor are they holding any beers, so Pete decides it’s probably okay and he doesn’t have to do any adult intervening, i.e. embarrassing himself in front of cool youths.

“Patrick!” They greet him enthusiastically, clasping his hand in turn and giving him bro hugs.

“Yo, Patrick! Heard you playing from all the way up here! That voice can  _ carry!  _ When you gonna go pro?” Pete looks up to find the source of the voice and sees a kid sitting on the roof, smoking, his feet dangling down.

“Uh,” Pete says, “why is he on the roof?”

Patrick shrugs. “Because he wants to be.”

“Yeah,” the kid shouts down. “Because I want to be.”

Pete slowly nods. “Good enough reason, I guess.”

“Are you Patrick’s boyfriend?” one of the kids on the ground asks.

“I’m just his friend,” Pete responds.

“So you guys haven’t fu— ”

“Okay,” Patrick says, “I’m not discussing my love life with anyone under 21, and neither is Pete.”

“Hi, Pete,” says another kid, shyly.

“Whatever,” says the kid on the roof. “We’ll let you have some privacy.”

“We don’t need —” Patrick begins, but his words are lost among the commotion of the kids grabbing their skateboards and jostling each other as they all disappear into the bar.

“Was that real? Did that just happen?” Pete asks Patrick as they settle onto a bench.

Patrick laughs. “Why wouldn’t it be real?”

“Because kids don’t usually hang out on the roofs of bars?”

“The one on the roof — the de facto leader — is Tom’s nephew. They loiter here a lot, but they’re good kids.” Patrick leans into Pete, and Pete puts his arm around him.

“Hey,” Pete asks. “Why’d you bring me here?”

“I wanted to spend time with you,” Patrick says. “Oh, you mean here specifically?” 

Pete nods, but he’s smiling at the fact that Patrick’s instinctual response was so sweet. 

“I don’t know, it just seemed like a place you needed to see. I thought you would like it.”

“I do,” Pete says. He tips Patrick’s face up to look into his eyes. “And I like you.”

“I like you, too.” Patrick leans forward to press his lips against Pete’s. They stay there for a while, taking advantage of the privacy.

That night, when Pete finally manages to sleep, he dreams of ships sinking in the Atlantic.

⭗⭗⭗⭗

Then there’s Gabe. 

He visits the store often, of course — a bright, boisterous, and  _ tall  _ presence. He hovers around Patrick, who always greets him warmly but is carefully aware of Pete’s proximity, or Vicky on occasion. Where Patrick attracts flies like honey with his charm, Vicky somehow attracts people by virtue of being nearly unapproachable. Pete has this theory that people feel the need to impress her, or at least find a way into her good graces, and Gabe seems to have done so. His personality is the sun to her moon, but she tolerates him with sisterly fondness. As for the elusive Andy, Gabe has even managed to bond with him over their veganism and vegetarianism, respectively.

Pete tells himself he’s okay with this arrangement. He’s the interloper in the equation, and Patrick has made his intentions clear. Pete has no right to jealousy or anger, and when he feels them boiling in his stomach, his thoughts drift to Bebe in the café — how the foam from the chai latte she ordered settled on her upper lip as she showed him photographs of her art.

He’s thinking of chai lattes often these days. 

Some nights, Patrick comes home with Pete, always ready and willing as soon as they go inside. Pete tries not to be resentful that he never gets to see the inside of Patrick's place — that quaint Evanston townhouse he drove him to on the night they met. He suspects there are too many signs of Gabe there. It's just another way that Patrick is keeping Pete carefully at arm's length, despite the fact that Pete's tongue has been all the way inside his ass.

⭗⭗⭗⭗

On a snowy day in early February, the store is empty of customers, but Gabe, Hayley, and Joe are all there, and they’re each taking turns with the overhead soundsystem. Joe is supposed to be there to provide moral support for Pete, but instead he’s following Andy around as he stocks the metal section. He’s picking out records and asking what Andy thinks of them, excitement flickering across his face every time Andy gives his opinion.

“It’s almost closing time,” says Hayley, sitting on the counter, “and since everyone is here, I propose we all go clubbing.”

“Uh, I’ll take a pass on that, thanks,” Joe says.

“You should come with us,” Andy says. “If you want, you can stay sober with me and laugh at everyone.”

Joe hesitates, but before he can answer, Patrick says, “You might not have to worry about it. It doesn’t look like Chicago wants us to go clubbing.” He points to the front window. Outside, the snow is falling harder than Pete can remember seeing it in a long time, which is saying something for Illinois. Huge clumps of white are pelting down, making it impossible to see the street beyond.

“Was it  _ supposed  _ to snow this hard today?” Vicky asks.

Andy moves to the soundsystem and switches the overhead from My Bloody Valentine to a local radio station.

_...stay inside. The CTA has issued a statement that it’s closing all of its routes because it’s too hazardous to attempt safe transit in this storm. This is on track to become the biggest blizzard Chicago has seen since ‘99... _

Everyone looks at each other for a moment, stock-still and silent, until Andy says, “Fuckin’ polar vortex always shitting all over everything.”

“How are we gonna get home if the CTA is closing?” Gabe asks. “Are we stuck here?”

“What are you doing?” Hayley asks, looking over at Vicky, who’s tapping on her phone.

“I’m texting Bebe. If we hurry, maybe we can make it to their place. I’m sure she and Travie won’t mind.”

“We could just hunker down here,” Patrick says.

“I’d rather stay in my friends’ spacious loft that’s fully stocked with amenities, thank you very much.”

“By amenities, she means wine,” Hayley adds.

“And a shower and blankets and Bebe’s PJs that she’ll let me borrow.”

Hayley nods and says, “Also, though: wine.”

Vicky sighs. “Also, wine.”

After somehow managing to convince Bebe and Travie that hosting seven people in their loft overnight is charitable, they quickly lock up the store (“Inventory can wait,” Patrick says) and bundle up to brave the few blocks to safety and relative comfort.

Pete will never know how Vicky sees well enough to lead them there — she must have an ungodly sense of direction. He can barely see anything in the whiteout of the storm, the snow is falling so hard it feels like tiny daggers, and his eyes are halfway closed to keep the icy moisture from getting into them. It seems like the walk lasts all night, and his entire body is frozen through by the time they finally stumble into the lobby, a shivering wet bundle clasping each other for warmth. He doesn’t even know who he’s holding onto until he feels thawed enough to detach himself from Joe and Patrick.

“Look at you snow bunnies,” Bebe says as they file into the loft. “Red noses, the lot of you.”

“Fuckin’ adorable,” says Travie.

“I’ll show you adorable,” Vicky grumbles. “We almost died getting here. It’s a nightmare out there.”

“Settle in, make yourselves comfortable,” says Bebe. “I hope you all like each other because I don’t think this storm is blowing away anytime soon.”

Pete glances at Gabe, who meets his eyes for a second before they both look away.

They all do as Bebe says, stripping off their wet overclothes and taking over the kitchen to make drinks. They’re still half-huddling together for warmth, staying close to each other as Bebe makes hot toddies.

Drinks in hand, they settle onto Bebe and Travie’s oversized furniture. The loft is warm and cozy — all dark wood and dim lighting. There isn’t enough space for everyone on the furniture, so Pete finds himself sitting next to Bebe on the floor.

Conversation starts slow — concerns about the weather and awkward breaks of silence that have everyone giggling. But before long, their bodies warm up, and the words flow as easily as the snow billowing down outside.

Soon, they’re exchanging stories. 

Gabe talks animatedly about an old trip to New York with Patrick’s family. Patrick is sitting next to him on the couch. He’s holding his glass close to his chest, and his legs are folded underneath him. He looks so small and compact next to Gabe, whose entire body is stretched out. His arm is extended across the top of the couch behind Patrick’s head.

“I tried to teach him how to ice skate,” Gabe says, his grin splitting his face. “His mom was taking pictures of us the whole time. We look at the pictures later, and in all of them, he’s flat on his back or his stomach on the ice. Not a single one on his feet.”

Patrick’s face is bright red, but he’s laughing as Gabe says, “Here we are at Rockefeller Center, everything is beautiful, there’s this huge tree with all these lights, and people are skating circles around us while Patrick is just flopping around on the ice like a fucking mackerel.” 

“I’m not good at sports!” Patrick whines. “I don’t know why he thought ice skating would be the exception.”

Through her laughter, Vicky says, “Did you ever learn how?”

“No! I kept flopping around like a flaccid dick until Gabe finally got embarrassed enough to stop trying to teach me.”

“I have a hard time believing Gabe gets embarrassed about anything,” says Hayley, chuckling. “I bet he couldn’t wait to tell that story.” 

Then, for Pete, two things happen in slow motion.

First, like he’s done it a thousand times before, Patrick leans his head back onto Gabe’s arm and sighs contentedly.

Second, Bebe says, “You two make a cute couple,” and with his head still on Gabe’s arm, Patrick turns to look up at Gabe and smiles.

Pete looks down at his whiskey and tries to focus on the rich caramel color. He lifts it to his mouth and takes a deep swig, eyes closed. 

Big mistake, closing his eyes. Behind his eyelids, he sees Patrick’s face, earnest and vulnerable, seconds before he leans in for a kiss. 

Pete stands up and walks past the makeshift wall that Bebe and Travie have constructed out of empty frames and canvas, to the kitchen beyond it. 

He needs more whiskey. A lot more.

He’s not surprised to hear footsteps close behind him, and he’s not surprised when he turns around and sees Joe.

“Dude,” Joe says.

“Don’t,” Pete responds, reaching for the Bulleit. “I know this kind of situation isn’t in your wheelhouse. You don’t have to try to console me.”

“Just because I don’t want to fuck anyone doesn’t mean I can’t be there for my best friend,” Joe says. “I know how you get. You like to isolate yourself and wallow.”

“I can’t really isolate myself in a loft full of people, can I? Wonderful idea to shack up with the guy I’m fucking and his actual boyfriend for the night. You and I should’ve stayed back at the store.”

“They didn’t confirm it,” Joe says weakly.

“They didn’t deny it,” Pete shoots back.

“They’re all drunk. Well, except for Andy.”

“How does that saying go? ‘In wine, there’s truth’ or some shit.”

“In wine, there’s also not giving a shit about what you say or how you act, whether it’s the truth or not. You know that.”

Pete sighs and takes another swig.

“Maybe you should, you know, forget about him.”

Pete looks at Joe darkly. “I wish I could. Maybe if I drink enough, I will.”

Joe rolls his eyes. “Stop being so dramatic, pick yourself up, go back in there, and hang out with Bebe.”

“Bebe?” Pete blinks. “Why Bebe?”

“Dude, you’re either purposefully being dense or you really are that dumb, and neither are appealing.”

“What?”

Joe lets out one of his signature drawn-out, exasperated sighs, complete with his eyes lifted to the heavens as if to ask why he’s been tasked with such a disastrous bisexual for a best friend. “She purposefully made sure she sat by you. Every question she’s asked tonight has been low-key directed at you. The more she drinks, the less reserved she gets about openly staring at you. It’s obvious to  _ me _ , Pete.”

“Oh.” And suddenly Pete is thinking about chai lattes again, but this time he imagines reaching over to gently wipe away the foam from Bebe’s top lip. 

He takes another swig of whiskey.

The sound of an acoustic guitar floats in from the living room, and soon Hayley’s voice follows, singing Fleetwood Mac’s “Everywhere.”

They stand there for a bit, Pete and Joe, just listening. The music calms Pete, almost makes him think it could be easy. He could just walk back in and sit down next to Bebe. He could talk about art with her. Everything could be — 

“Okay,” Pete says. “I’ll forget about him. I’ll hang out with Bebe. Okay.”

“That’s the spirit,” says Joe. “Just try to have a good time, alright?”

Pete is unsteady on his feet as he walks back to the living room. Aside from Andy, everyone looks syrupy with alcohol, loose-limbed as they lounge deeper into their respective spots. Travie’s legs are stretched out across Vicky’s lap on the couch. Patrick’s head is still on Gabe’s arm.

The night is dark outside the windows, and the snow is still coming down hard. They’ve been checking the news at intervals. It’s predicted they’ll get close to 20 inches of snow by the time it’s over. Pete thinks it’s probably poetic somehow, the Snowpocalypse dumping on his city while Patrick dumps on his heart, but he doesn’t have the energy to devote to that thought at the moment.

He pushes all thoughts of Patrick away and sits down next to Bebe. She glances at him, absentmindedly shaking the ice around in her empty glass. He scoots closer to her and offers his freshly poured glass of straight whiskey. “I probably shouldn’t finish this by myself.”

She smiles and takes it from him. He watches her as she sips the golden liquid carefully. She’s beautiful — that hasn’t escaped his notice. And she’s talented and driven. She’s everything Pete probably would have wanted a few months ago.

Before he met Patrick.

They share Pete’s whiskey and watch Hayley play. Patrick joins her after a while, switching out on guitar while they both sing. They sound incredible together. Not for the first time, Pete finds himself wondering how he managed to fall in with such talented friends, and what exactly he has to contribute.

The glass is empty, so he goes to the kitchen again. This time, Bebe follows.

She watches him carefully as he pours more whiskey and cuts it with Coke. “Are you okay?”

“Just drunk,” Pete tries to smile. “I should probably cut myself off.”

“You were drinking slowly most of the night. Now it’s like you can’t get enough.”

Pete leans back against the counter, his mind spinning. He tries to still it, to make everything feel less frantic, somehow. “To be honest, I’m wondering what I’m doing here.”

“I’m assuming you’re speaking on a philosophical level?”

“Everyone here is more talented than I’ll ever hope to be.” Pete shakes his glass, and some of the liquid sloshes out. “Why am I here? Why are you doing me the favor of helping me when you barely even know me?”

She folds her arms. “I’d like to think I’ve gotten to know you a bit, Pete. If I hadn’t seen something in you during our first meeting at the café, then I wouldn’t have bothered. And  _ I’m  _ not doing  _ you  _ a favor. This is a mutually beneficial partnership.”

“I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“You only think that because it’s difficult and overwhelming, but that’s true of anything that’s new. Look around you.” Pete follows her gesture with his eyes, looking at the parts of the loft he can see from the fairly secluded kitchen area.

“This isn’t an office building,” Bebe continues. “We’re laid-back here. Right now, we’re a group of humans stuck inside together because of a winter storm, and we’re singing to pass the time.”

Pete smiles. “That’s all?”

“That’s all,” Bebe repeats. “I know you’re struggling with your role in all of this. We’re not in it for the capital, but we need to eat to survive, and food costs money. We do what we love, and we let Chicago’s elite salivate over it because that’s what allows us to wake up the next day and do it all over again. But we need someone to help us sustain that, and I absolutely believe you’re the most capable person for the job. You know why?”

Pete shakes his head.

“Because you quit your job as a financial advisor.”

“That makes no sense.”

“I don’t want the face of corporate evil, so to speak, helping me finance an art collective. You understand the ins and outs of the financial world, but you wanted out. The way you described my art to me, Pete, it's…" Her voice breaks, and it catches Pete off guard. He never would have imagined it meant this much to her. "I want people to see my work, and my friends’ work, and I have faith that you’ll help me accomplish that with integrity.”

Pete’s mind is fuzzy, but he thinks he could kiss her right now. 

And why can’t he? It’s all too simple, to his whiskey-addled brain.

He takes two strides forward and presses his lips to Bebe’s, kissing her deep and slow. She kisses him back, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair. It’s uncomplicated. It’s two people who have a mutual interest, and maybe mutual wants and needs, but that doesn’t stop him from thinking about Patrick. His heart feels like a rock in his chest. He pulls back, and they break apart.

He moves his eyes from Bebe’s mouth to the kitchen entrance, where Patrick and Vicky are standing, looking at them with a range of emotions on both of their faces.

“We just came here for more alcohol,” says Vicky. “I didn’t know this was the designated makeout spot.”

Bebe starts to respond, but then Joe and Andy walk in, and they’re soon followed by Gabe and Travie and then Hayley. The tension in the room is broken by everyone crowding together, pouring shots and talking about playing Texas Hold'Em. It’s like they all got a second wind.

Except for Patrick, who looks utterly deflated. He just stands there, unmoving.

Everyone moves to the table, and Pete follows, keeping a wary eye on Patrick as Travie rummages through the closet for a poker set that he swears they have.

Patrick leans back against the counter, drink in hand, staring at something in the middle distance.

Finally, from the table, Vicky says, “You playing, Stump?” She gives him a meaningful look.

His eyes flick to Pete before settling on Vicky. He nods and then slowly joins everyone at the table.

They play until they’re all too tired or too drunk to continue, and Pete can’t remember who wins.

⭗⭗⭗⭗

The next morning, the city is back to a relative normal. There’s still some long-term cleanup to do, but the CTA is running again, and Pete is eager to get home to Bear.

His aching head is so preoccupied with Bear, in fact, that the events of the previous night seem like a hazy dream. He needs to find his way back to his real life — the one where he has a dog and he doesn’t get involved in soap-opera-level drama.

He ducks out while everyone besides Andy is still asleep, thanking his internal clock, for once in his life, for being impetuously early. He says a quick goodbye to Andy and heads down to the lobby. He’s hesitating to go out in the cold, looking at the snow piled up outside, when he hears someone approaching behind him.

Somehow, he knows who it is before he turns around, and at the sight of Patrick, the previous night comes rushing painfully back.

They stand there awkwardly for a bit. It’s no consolation that Patrick looks like hell. It just makes Pete want to pull him into his chest and offer to take him home with him, stroke him to sleep. But it’s also surprisingly easy to resist that desire. He must be more pissed than he thought.

“So, you and Bebe?”

Pete doesn’t respond. He just looks at Patrick, morbidly curious where this conversation will go.

Patrick’s eyes are dark, indicating that it can’t possibly go anywhere good. “Are you dating her or just fucking her?”

“Why does it matter?”

“I’ve been open with you about everything. It would be nice if you could do the same.”

“I  _ have  _ done the same.”

Patrick barrels on like he didn’t hear Pete, “But she’s an artist, so I get it. I mean, she’s practically a piece of art herself.”

“Are you kidding me right now? Are you  _ jealous?” _

“I’ve been trying to make things work —”

_ “Stop,” _ Pete says. It exits his mouth with more fury than he expected, as though all of his frustrations over the past few months are concentrated in that single word, sharpened and honed and directed at Patrick like a knife. Slowly, and darkly, Pete continues, “Think really hard before you finish that sentence. Who are you trying to make things work with? Me or him?  _ How  _ are you trying to make things work? Because there hasn’t been much effort on your part, for either of us.”

“I gave you a job,” Patrick says. “I devote my time to you. We see each other almost every day.”

“Did you give me a job just so you could throw it back in my face like this?”

“Pete, I —”

“No.” Pete holds up his hand. The pain feels like acid in his stomach. He wants it gone. All of it — the longing, the unspoken point system of favors, the secrets, even the sex that all too often feels like he’s watching a performance. “I’ve fallen for you, Patrick. I fell for you when you got into my car for the second time, and I thought the universe had brought you to me, to be honest. I thought I dreamt you. Everything has felt like a fucking dream since you came into my life.”

“Pete —” 

“But now I know better.” Pete counts on his fingers the lessons learned: “The universe doesn’t give anyone shit. Everyone takes advantage of each other all the time. And you’re not the person I thought you were.”

“We should talk about this. We should —”

“We  _ are  _ talking about it, and I’m telling you, I’m done.”

Patrick  _ almost  _ looks like he’s going to cry, and Pete  _ almost  _ feels sorry for him. Mostly, he just feels tired. Actually, tired isn’t the right word. He suddenly feels each one of his 34 years weighing him down with exhaustion.

“You know who you really need to talk to, right?”

Patrick doesn’t say anything, just looks down at his feet.

“You need to have a long, sincere talk with the guy who’s  _ in love with you. _ You owe him that. I’m giving you a pass because I haven’t spent god knows how long pining over you. So go talk to Gabe. I can’t play your games anymore. I’ll see you on Monday.”

Pete opens the door, finally ready to face the blistering Chicago cold alone. Right now, the only things on his mind are his dog and his own warm bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some suspension of disbelief required for this fic, and I would like to say that the dive bar Patrick takes Pete to in this chapter is part of that. But there is actually a hole-in-the-wall bar in my city with a bartender who's also a sailor, old video game consoles, and skater kids who hang out on the roof. Sometimes you just can't make this shit up.
> 
> Please dispense any anger and/or hatred in the comments. I promise things will look up for our poor beleaguered Pete very soon.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let’s switch things up a bit, shall we? ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to [Snitches](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers) for helping me find Gabe’s voice in this chapter, even though I know Stumporta isn’t your thing.
> 
>  ***Content Warning:*** There is a very brief mention of abuse/dubcon in this chapter. If you need to skip it, it’s the seventh paragraph down that begins with “Gabe was there five years ago…” Please take care of yourself. <3
> 
> [Gabey Baby](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/761796090411876382/807522856195588096/gabe.jpg)
> 
> Songs:  
> [Red Bull & Hennessy - Jenny Lewis](https://open.spotify.com/track/3rrzbjHWFyKcCpagbbFjrE)  
> [How Come You Never Go There - Feist](https://open.spotify.com/track/1T6ujnAPpCTz0r5ahuwhsH)

**Half a year later…**

Patrick loves Gabe. There's no doubt in his mind about that. He loved him when he met him in his last year of college. Gabe’s long arm stretched over the bar, handing Patrick a glass of the golden liquid that would become one of his two biggest vices, and he listened like a therapist while Patrick wondered aloud what his life was becoming. Gabe filled the bartender-therapist role until it turned into the best friend role, which really isn't much different when it comes down to it, and Patrick’s love swelled.

Patrick loved Gabe when, late one night after seeing Hot Water Music, hyped up on adrenaline and post-show magic, Gabe blurted out how he really felt because he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

He loved Gabe even as he broke his heart over and over again.

And he loves him now, while he lies on his back with Gabe over him, large hands on his thighs as he feels the familiar stretch of his best friend's dick and watches a bead of sweat travel down the contours of his chest. 

But there are different kinds of love, and Patrick has never been good at the romantic sort.

He does this because it fills a need, and Gabe is aware of that more than anyone. Patrick knows how it appears from the outside, but he and Gabe have come to an agreement, and an agreement between the two of them is binding. It's as simple as this: they'll fuck each other until something gives.

Gabe was there five years ago, when Patrick couldn't hear out of his right ear for weeks after the last blow in a tumultuous relationship landed a little too hard. And Gabe was there three years later, when Patrick called him from a hotel just outside of the city with an aching body and no memory of how he got there.

Gabe never says the things other people sometimes say to him — why do you get involved with people like that, why does this keep happening to you, why do you keep drinking, why do you keep meeting guys in bars? Gabe doesn't ask why. He asks, "What do you need?" And Patrick thinks his heart will burst from the love he should be able to give him but can't.

Patrick knows that he’s cold. He can’t fully emerge from the river he unwillingly plunged into at some point, which has muted his emotions and darkened the world around him. He mitigates any possible repercussions by letting people know that they shouldn't expect much from him in the way of emotional reciprocation. But he can show them a damn good time. That, he's capable of.

Gabe's thrusts grow erratic, and the muscles in his stomach contract as Patrick feels the hot rush of his cum inside of him. Gabe reaches down to stroke Patrick until he follows him over the edge. Then he pulls out and flops over on his back next to Patrick on the bed, chest heaving.

Patrick turns his head to look at him and reaches over to ruffle his messy brown hair. Gabe grabs his hand and presses it to his lips. He doesn't let go. There's something in his eyes — has been for a few days — something un-Gabe-like. Patrick has seen sadness on Gabe's face plenty of times before, and he knows that he's often been the cause of it, but this is different.

"You okay?" he asks, dreading every possible answer.

Gabe chooses avoidance and diversion. "You're wearing me out, that's all." He smiles. "Need a shower."

He lets out an exaggerated groan as he rises from the bed and stretches. Patrick’s eyes rake over his lithe body. He knows it so well — every crease and plane, so different from his own, beautiful and capable of so much more than Patrick deserves.

Patrick isn't sure if he knows what sex with someone you love is supposed to feel like, truly, but this is as close as he's ever come. Well, almost as close, but he's spent six months trying not to think about that.

He needs to push the encroaching thoughts away, so he gets out of bed and follows Gabe into the bathroom. He squeezes into the shower with him, and Gabe lifts his arms and settles them around Patrick's shoulders, pulling him close, a warm current of water running between their bodies. Patrick sighs.

They shower in silence for a bit, soaping each other up. As he's rinsing, Gabe says, "I wanna take you somewhere."

"Okay," Patrick says. "Where?"

"It's a surprise."

"That scares me."

"Why? I'm full of surprises."

"Yeah, but they're not usually the ‘I'm gonna take you somewhere’ surprises. They're usually more like ‘I'm gonna jump on you unsuspectingly and crush you with my freakishly large body.’"

“No crushing this time, I promise.”

When they’re finished, Gabe catches Patrick as he’s stepping out of the shower and carries him, protesting but laughing, to the bed. He lays him down and climbs on top of him, his eyes dark with mischief and lust.

“We just showered!” Patrick whines, but his cock is already filling.

“We spent too much time in there,” Gabe mutters into Patrick’s neck. “You're all clean.”

“I thought that was the point of showers,” Patrick says breathlessly.

"I like you dirty." Gabe flips him over and slides his hands down to his ass cheeks. He spreads them apart and traces Patrick’s hole with his fingers, and then Patrick feels his tongue and he’s gone.

⭗⭗⭗⭗

The place Gabe wants to take him is, evidently, the Chicago Art Institute. Standing at the entrance, brow furrowed, Patrick says, “Why are we here?”

“This guy came into the bar the other night, and he wouldn’t shut up about an exhibit, talked about it like it was life-changing. He made me want to see it.”

Patrick just looks at him for a beat and then shrugs. “Alright, let’s go see this life-changing exhibit then.”

The exhibit in question comprises photographs, mostly of nighttime cityscapes, stretching over circular canvases with typography in the middle. There’s a different phrase on each canvas. Patrick wouldn’t say it’s life-changing, but visual art has never been his thing. There  _ is _ something about the photographs, though — a feeling he doesn’t have the art-school vocabulary to place. Wistful, maybe? As they walk through the exhibit halls, Gabe is quieter than Patrick has ever known him to be.

**I KNOW THIS WHOLE DAMN CITY THINKS IT NEEDS YOU**

When Patrick met Gabe, he was quiet at first. He listened to Patrick with all the practiced composure of a bartender. But the more Patrick went to the bar and got to know Gabe, the louder and more expressive he became. Regulars loved him, Patrick included.

Patrick stayed later and later each time he visited, just to hang out with Gabe and watch him deftly mix drinks, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, while running his mouth to Patrick and anyone else who would listen. But he knew when to stop talking when it was needed — like the night when Patrick watched him console a woman whose date had stood her up. He mixed her a drink based on a series of questions he asked her, and then he told her it was on the house.

“You mix drinks based on a personality test?” Patrick asked after she had gone.

“Nah, that was bullshit. I just made her a sidecar. People never order it, they rarely know it when they see it, and everyone likes it.”

Patrick laughed. “She  _ really  _ liked it,” he said, glancing at the receipt she left on the bar, scribbled with a big tip and her number.

“It’s my go-to cheer-up drink. She was a sweetheart, but she’s not my type.”

“She seemed kind of young,” Patrick said, nodding.

“Not just that,” Gabe grinned. “You’re a music guy, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, so, let’s just say I have more in common with Elton John than Rod Stewart.”

“Ah,” Patrick raised his eyebrows. “Something we can agree on.”

After that, they played a secret game, just between the two of them, called “Who Would You Give a Sidecar To?” with the guys who came into the bar.

On a busy Friday night, Patrick lost track of Gabe. The bar was packed with people, and Gabe kept disappearing among the crowded tables. Patrick was nursing his drink when he felt someone sit down on the barstool next to him. He kept his eyes forward and ignored them, not in the mood to talk to anyone besides Gabe. He was readying himself to try and find a more secluded seat when the person spoke.

“I kinda want to know what it’s like to hang out with you on this side of the bar.”

Patrick whipped his head around at the voice and took in Gabe, all long torso and tall dark hair, dwarfing the barstool next to him. “I’m much cooler on this side of the bar,” Patrick assured him.

“Really?”

“Yeah. See, on this side of the bar, I’ve been approached by someone who wants to talk to me, rather than trying to monopolize the bartender’s attention all night.”

Gabe laughed as he waved one of the other bartenders over. He leaned in and spoke to them too softly for Patrick to hear, and then the bartender scurried away to take another patron’s order. Gabe and Patrick chatted for a bit, until the bartender came back with two identical drinks and placed them on the bar in front of them.

“What’s this?” Patrick asked.

“Sidecar,” Gabe said, eyeing Patrick as he sipped his own drink, and then, “Just a little joke.”

**BUT NOT AS MUCH AS I DO**

Patrick wondered, for a little while, what would have happened if either of them had pushed things further that night and if they had gone home together. But Patrick wasn’t really doing that yet, and even so, Gabe was different. Patrick didn’t want to fuck him. He was too special for that. Patrick wanted, almost desperately, to hold onto him.

Gabe is Patrick’s polar opposite in so many ways that he doesn’t understand how they get along as well as they do. One of those differences is their athleticism — or, in Patrick’s case, lack thereof. Gabe is a highly physical being, which often results in him trying to pull Patrick into various activities. These well-intentioned attempts usually end in Patrick expressing an intense desire to inflict some kind of creative violence on Gabe.

A few months into their friendship, Gabe grew obsessed with the Appalachian Trail. He watched documentaries on it, read articles about it, and talked about it so much that Patrick had half a mind to drag him to the Appalachian Trail and leave him there for good, just so he wouldn’t have to hear about fir trees and grizzly bears and invasive insects anymore.

Instead, when Gabe asked if Patrick would go on a weekend trip to hike a small portion of the trail with him, for some ungodly reason Patrick agreed.

The drive took the better part of a day, but a road trip with Gabe is nothing if not entertaining, and although they got up at a ridiculous hour the next morning, Patrick couldn’t deny that he was enjoying himself. 

The hike went well enough for the first couple of miles. Gabe had chosen an eight-mile chunk of trail that wasn’t too strenuous, and Patrick was feeling confident. He was even reveling in nature a bit. Fir trees were actually quite lovely, it seemed, and the sound of the babbling stream was soothing. It was nice and cool in the mountains. He could get used to this.

Then something hissed at him.

Patrick yelped and tried to move, but his foot caught in something — rocks or a root, maybe, he has no fucking clue — and he felt a sharp pang in his ankle as he fell, ass down, onto the dirty ground.

“It’s just a little garter snake,” Gabe said, and the fucker  _ kneeled down  _ to get a closer look at the creature that had just tried to murder him. “Little guy’s not poisonous. Don’t worry.”

Patrick tried to stand up and winced. “I don’t care if he’s not poisonous, he still tried to fuck my world up. I think I twisted my ankle.”

Gabe grabbed Patrick’s arm and helped him stand. “Can you walk on it?”

Patrick took a few tentative, grunting steps. His ankle hurt — a low, throbbing pain that spasmed if he stepped a certain way — but Gabe had been talking about this trip for so long and they had traveled so far. Patrick didn’t want to disappoint him by forcing them to pack it in early. “It’s fine.”

“We can take it slow,” Gabe said. “We have plenty of time. We’ll take breaks.”

Patrick nodded, and they continued on.

The trail grew steeper as it wound up the mountain, and before long, they couldn’t fit side-by-side anymore. Gabe let Patrick go in front, presumably so he could catch him if he fell. Patrick was slowing them down a bit, but the pain in his ankle had mostly subsided. It would come back in full force the next day, but walking on it had caused him to grow accustomed enough that it was simply a minor annoyance.

That particular stretch of the trail made it difficult to enjoy the scenery. They mostly had to keep their eyes on their feet or risk tripping and falling down the mountain. Patrick was feeling good about himself, though. No, scratch that — he felt like a fucking beast. He had looked a snake in the eye, stood bravely against its hissing attack, and survived. He was bearing the pain of his serpent-fighting ordeal like a champ. He probably looked hot — muscles bulging and glistening with sweat. He was a regular outdoorsman. Put a fucking raccoon skin on his head and call him Daniel Boone. 

He looked up to see where they were heading, as he did at intervals, and stopped dead in his tracks. Several paces up the trail stood a bear, and next to the bear stood two smaller bears — cubs. Patrick had never seen a bear in real life before. All he could think about was baseball, that he was seeing the Cubs,  _ ha ha ha, _ except they weren’t in Chicago and these unfortunately weren’t men dressed in tight uniforms. 

His brain couldn’t do the mental math required to send the signal to his aching body fast enough that “yes, that is a bear in front of you, and — oh, look — she has babies with her, and this is probably a bad thing.” He was still trying to compute it when he felt two long arms lift him underneath his legs and his back. Gabe. Oh, yeah, Gabe was there. And Gabe was… carrying him down the mountain.

Patrick was no longer an outdoorsman. Fear and humiliation were now fighting for dominance in his mind as Gabe slowly backed away from the bears with Patrick in his arms, carefully turned around, and began walking back down the way they came.

They were quiet and Gabe was careful, walking slowly but steadily, until the trail widened again, and Gabe heaved a grunt and set Patrick down gingerly. Patrick hobbled over to a fallen tree and sat down. Gabe was breathing heavily, his adrenaline probably draining as quickly as it came. They stayed quiet, listening for the rustle of trees or growling or any possible thing that would indicate they were being stalked by an angry bear.

After some time had passed with no bearlike noises to speak of, Gabe said, “I think we’re good.” 

“This mountain,” Patrick said, “is cursed.”

Gabe laughed. “She’s probably as relieved as we are. Bears usually don’t bother people, but the cubs were a concern. If she felt like they were threatened, that’s when she would’ve attacked.”

“Have you had your fill of the Appalachians yet, mountain man?”

“I think the Appalachians might want us to go back to Chicago.”

Patrick nodded. “You, um — You carried me.”

“Uh, yeah. Survival instinct. We needed to go, and you were hurt.”

“Do you see why I don’t do the outdoors now?” Patrick groaned. “Or sports? Or physical activity?”

“Oh, come on. We had an adventure! And now that I’m more than fifty-percent sure neither of us are gonna get eaten, I can say it was fucking awesome!”

“What would be fucking awesome right now,” Patrick said, “is a cold beer and my bed.” But he was smiling despite himself.

As they headed back down the mountain, it was the first of many times that Patrick understood that Gabe would always put him first. It’s not that Patrick wouldn’t do the same for him, but Gabe has shown it over and over again in a thousand ways both big and small, while Patrick has always struggled to keep up. And Patrick will never be sure if it has anything to do with Gabe’s real feelings. He thinks it’s probably just how Gabe is. 

It’s hard now to separate Gabe from his love for Patrick, and Patrick wonders if he appreciated him enough then, if he  _ ever _ appreciated him enough, and if he ever will.

**I’M HERE, AT THE BEGINNING OF THE END**

Leaving the museum, Patrick feels uneasy. This whole day has been off, somehow. Gabe hasn’t been Gabe. They sit down on a bench outside, and Gabe lights a cigarette.

They sit in silence, watching people milling about the museum grounds, until the uneasiness grows so much that Patrick can’t stand it anymore. “Gabe?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s going on? Why are things so weird between us right now?”

Gabe exhales deeply, tendrils of smoke curling out of his mouth. “I need to tell you something.”

Patrick feels his heart drop into his stomach. Nothing good is ever prefaced by those words. He doesn’t say anything, just waits and tries to calm the fear enough to give Gabe time to build up to whatever it is he needs to say.

“I called an old bartender buddy in Vegas. His resort has a couple of openings for seasonal work. I think I’m gonna go there for a while.”

Patrick tries to swallow down the panic that rushes into his throat like bile and stings in his eyes. He wants to say something, but he can’t form words. He just sits there, blinking stupidly.

Gabe continues. “I need a change of scenery, and you can make five hundred bucks in a night there sometimes, if you’re good. I mean, bartenders there aren’t your typical bartenders. They’re more like — I don’t know, what’s a fancy bartender called?” He tries to laugh, but it’s stilted.

Patrick finds his voice, but it comes out weak and scratchy. “So you’re leaving?”

Slowly, Gabe says, “I need to get away for awhile, put some distance between me and Chicago.” He hasn’t looked at Patrick since he started talking. He feels like a stranger. Patrick is sitting next to someone he doesn’t know. Where is the guy who gave him a sidecar, who carried him down a mountain, who told him he was in love with him, who fucked him twice this morning?

“Is it me? Did I do something wrong?”

Gabe sighs. “Not really. I’m the one who’s beating a dead horse here. I keep sticking around, hoping something will change.”

“But now you’re leaving because I can’t give you what you want.” It’s not a question. Patrick knows. Of course he knows. Gabe’s patience must have been wearing thin. It’s not a revelation, but the benefit of foresight doesn’t dull the pain. Patrick knew this would probably, eventually happen, but he would worry about that bridge when he came to it. Now he’s standing at the edge of the chasm completely unprepared. 

“Patrick, I’ve  _ never _ walked away from you before, in all the years I’ve known you. Maybe we need some space, you and me. We’re suffocating each other.”

“You don’t suffocate me. You  _ never _ suffocate me.”

Gabe looks at Patrick now, and his face softens. “Patrick…”

“Do I suffocate you?”

“I just need to take off for a bit, experience something else for a while.”

_ “Do I suffocate you?” _

“Fuck, Patrick, how could you think you don’t?” Gabe winces, like his own anger hurts him. “For as long as I’ve known you, I’ve played the boyfriend role for you — even when I’ve tried to have relationships of my own. I mean, fuck, half the time that’s why they ended.”

“I know,” Patrick says quietly. His vision blurs as hot tears fill his eyes.

Gabe shakes his head. Maybe Patrick doesn’t know. Maybe he never cared enough to realize how much he was holding Gabe back. “I’ve looked out for you, I’ve gone on trips with you, I’ve taken you out to dinner and then watched you go off to find another guy to hook up with for the night — and I was fine with that. I don’t really know how, but I was. I could do that. But what we have going now — I can’t — I can’t just have sex with you, Patrick. There’s too much tied up in it. It gets harder every time.”

Patrick doesn’t know what to say. Gabe is right, and he can’t tell him that he doesn’t want him to leave. It’s obvious, and it’s selfish. He wants Gabe to be happy. At the core of everything lies Gabe’s happiness, and Patrick won’t deny him that, even if it means he’s no longer a part of it. He says the only thing that makes any sense. He says, “I’m sorry.”

“I’ve always thought there was a possibility for us, you know? Like, I understand why relationships are difficult for you and why you haven’t wanted to commit to anyone, but you put walls up with everyone you met — except me. I was different. And I was stupid enough to think you were holding out for me. I just thought, eventually…” 

There’s a long pause as Gabe stubs out his cigarette. “But then you met Pete.”

Pete? Patrick frowns. But — “Pete doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

“I can’t hang around here for that,” Gabe pushes on, ignoring Patrick. “I’ve waited long enough, and I can’t just stay here and watch that happen. I can’t keep doing nights like that night with the blizzard.”

“But — what do you mean? Pete’s gone.”

Gabe sighs and turns to face Patrick. He looks so tired, so unlike himself. It knocks something loose inside of Patrick — the realization that he’s losing his best friend. He lost Pete, and now he’s losing Gabe. “You need to figure out what it is that you’re doing, Patrick, and what you want. If it’s Pete, if it’s me, if it’s no one — that’s fine, but you need to figure it out, and I need to give you the space to do that.” He pauses, looking pained. “But I’m gonna miss the fuck out of you. Like, you know that, right?”

“Gabe —” Then the tears fall. They rush out like a dam breaking, and Patrick’s words catch in his throat so he can’t speak. He can’t say everything that’s inside of him, and it’s frustrating. He’s confused by all of this talk of Pete, and he doesn’t want Gabe to leave. He wants to hold onto him as much as he did all those nights ago at the bar, but he wants to understand. He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a hideous strangled noise.

Gabe leans forward, wraps his arms around Patrick, and pulls him into his chest. Patrick feels like his foundation is crumbling and he won’t be able to stand on his own. Somewhere deep within his limbic system, he knows realistically that he’ll be okay, and they’ll still talk every now and then, and maybe Gabe will visit sometimes. He understands the science of it. But right now, science is failing him. Right now, it’s not okay, and it won’t be for a while, and it hurts more than he ever realized it could.

They hold onto each other for a while.

“I’ve got to get to work,” Gabe says, pulling back, his eyes wet and red. “But we’ll talk again before I leave, okay?”

“Yeah,” Patrick manages, sniffling, but he’s hanging onto the front of Gabe’s shirt like he’s unsure. “Okay.”

“Are you gonna be good to get home?”

Patrick nods, and Gabe hugs him tightly again. He places a lingering kiss on Patrick’s forehead. As he pulls away, he pushes something into Patrick’s hands — a piece of paper.

Patrick watches him go, feeling slightly panicked. What if, somehow, he doesn’t see him again? What if this is it? He looks down at the paper. It takes him a few seconds of blinking through the tears to focus on what he’s seeing. 

At the top of the paper,  _ Decaydance Gallery Opening Reception _ is printed in bold lettering _.  _ He recognizes the names of a few of the artists listed, including Bebe Rexha and Travie McCoy, and below their names, at the bottom of the paper, there’s another name with a phone number next to it:  _ Pete Wentz.  _

He looks up and glances around him. Since when does Gabe care so much about art? Gabe brought him here for a reason — an exhibit that will change his life, and Gabe’s parting gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with this and for all of the feedback. It's so appreciated. <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The cutest couple in (this version of) Chicago](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/761796090411876382/811819191954309170/PeopleChoiceAwards2010RedCarpetlRss_KEEoV7x-02.jpeg)
> 
> Songs:  
> [Shock to Your System - Tegan and Sara](https://open.spotify.com/track/6X8cz4gsN2RMLP8wLALggA?si=b0d886487df44bc3)  
> [I Love You But I’m Lost - Sharon Van Etten](https://open.spotify.com/track/1GjtjqUbNXsLhXQYrI9oVa?si=2d3cdb94871148d2)

“What about You’re Next?” Hayley asks.

“I don’t want to see a horror movie,” Vicky whines. They're in True Blue Records, and Hayley is sitting on the counter dangling her feet. Vicky is standing behind the counter with her arms wrapped around Hayley’s waist, and Patrick is standing next to them, working on orders and trying yet failing not to pay attention to their conversation.

“But I’ve heard it’s kind of funny,” Hayley says.

“It’s still a horror movie. What about Drinking Buddies?”

Hayley scrunches her nose. “A rom com?”

“Is it a rom com or just a com?”

“I think it’s a dram com.”

“A dram com?”

“Drama comedy,” Patrick chimes in.

“Oh.” Vicky thinks for a second. “I don’t want to deal with much drama.”

“Okay, so you want light and fluffy?” Hayley asks. “No gore, no drama. Are there any fuckin’ cartoons playing?”

“I don’t want a cartoon,” Vicky protests. “I don’t want light and fluffy, but I also don’t want, um, dark and hard?”

“Okay, you dorks,” Patrick says. “There’s a simple solution. Who picked the last movie you saw? The opposite person gets to pick this time.”

Vicky and Hayley look at each other, both thinking it through. 

“You did,” Vicky says.

“Are you sure?” Hayley asks. “I’m pretty sure you did. Didn’t we go see Pacific Rim?”

“We saw The Conjuring after that.”

Hayley laughs. “Oh yeah, you’re right! That’s when you jumped so hard you spilled your Skittles everywhere, and that asshole in front of us kept shushing you.”

“Like I could stop the Skittles from making noise. He was a dick.”

“You were so cute, though,” Hayley says, still laughing. “You were just, like, frozen in your seat with this look on your face, like this mixture of embarrassment and fear, and Skittles were bouncing all the way down the theater steps during the scariest part of the movie. They were so  _ loud.” _

“Well, if you think I’m cute when I’m scared,” Vicky says, wrapping her arms tighter around Hayley and smiling, “then maybe I could stand to go see a horror movie.”

“You’re fucking  _ adorable  _ when you’re scared.” Hayley pushes a piece of Vicky’s long dark hair behind her ear and leans in close, their lips almost touching.

“Mm, you’ll let me hold onto you when I get too scared?”

“Oh,  _ so  _ tightly.”

Patrick clears his throat. “Can you two stop being sickeningly mushy for five minutes, please?”

They pull away from each other reluctantly, and Vicky gives Patrick a dark look. “Alright, then,” she says, “can we talk about why you’re not going to Pete’s gallery opening?”

“We’ve been through this,” Patrick grumbles.

“I know, but I didn’t understand it the first time,” Vicky says, “on account of your reasoning being fucking idiotic.”

“He made it clear that he doesn’t want anything to do with me, he’s obviously interested in Bebe, and I’m no good for him. I just drag him down,” Patrick says in monotone. He keeps replaying the morning after the blizzard on a loop in his head, when Pete told him that he isn’t the person he thought he was, when he saw the light go out of Pete’s eyes and understood that it was entirely his fault.

“I’m sure he’s past it by now and would love to see you, and I’ve told you a million times that he and Bebe are nothing.” Vicky punches his shoulder. “You gotta stop being so melodramatic.”

“You gotta stop punching me,” Patrick counters, rubbing his shoulder.

“You really should go,” says Hayley. “You can go with us if you want.”

“Yeah,” Vicky says. “You’re thirty now. Be an adult, face up to this, and go. So you guys had a weird relationship for a while. He’s still a good dude, and he deserves your support.”

“And didn’t Gabe give you his blessing?” Hayley asks.

“Shh!” Vicky says, giving her a soft slap on the knee.

“You can talk about Gabe around me.” Patrick rolls his eyes. “He’s not dead, and I’m not fragile. The mere mention of him isn’t going to send me into histrionics.”

“Okay,” Vicky says slowly, “then she kind of has a point. He did practically push you into Pete’s gallery.”

“Gabe’s been a bartender for too long. He’s always putting other people before himself and dealing with shit that he shouldn’t have to deal with. It was a nice gesture, but he doesn’t know the things Pete said to me.”

“The things he said to you in the heat of the moment, you mean,” says Hayley.

“Regardless of what went down between you two,” Vicky says, “I think on some level Pete feels like he owes you for the gallery. I’m sure he would want you there to help christen it or whatever.”

“Just make an appearance,” Hayley says, shrugging. “You don’t even have to talk to Pete if you don’t feel like it. It’s not a big deal. There’ll be plenty of people there who you know, and showing up is all that matters.”

Vicky gives him a little shove. “She’s right.”

Patrick sighs. “I’ll think about it, alright? But I don’t want to hear about it for the rest of the day, and please don’t make out on my counter!”

⭗⭗⭗⭗

Patrick has been spending less time in bars. It turns out, a fail-proof way to get yourself to stop drinking is to lose your favorite bartender. Okay, maybe that doesn’t work for everyone, but it’s proving quite effective for Patrick. He can’t bring himself to walk into Nightshades, the bar where Gabe worked. That was  _ their _ bar, and now it isn’t anymore. And even his other regular haunts don't feel the same, somehow. It's like Patrick has a gaping wound and bars are fingernails digging in, scratching and irritating it further. 

Tonight, he’s at a dive that doesn’t have much to speak of in the way of charm, but he’s had luck here before. So he’s drinking a Black and Tan, waiting for his senses to dull, and scouting out the bar, looking for somebody to fall into for the night.

He doesn’t have to wait very long.

“Mind if I sit here?”

Patrick turns his head to take in the owner of the slightly accented voice. Sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, tall and thin, soft and pretty. Not exactly his usual type, but enough to get him through the night. Patrick gives him a welcoming smile and says, “Sure.”

The guy slides onto the barstool next to him and offers his hand to shake. Patrick takes it. It’s warm and electric in that way that physical contact with a person he might be fucking soon always is. “I’m Ben,” he says.

“Patrick.”

"You look lonely."

"Well, I'm here alone."

"But not lonely?"

Patrick considers this. How do you tell someone you've always been lonely without sounding like the biggest emo asshat on the planet? He nods to Ella, the bartender, and says, “I know her. She comes into my record store every other weekend and talks to me about shoegaze. So no, I’m not lonely.”

“So your metric for not being lonely is having an acquaintance nearby?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“I see loneliness as something deeper. Joyce Carol Oates said it’s like starvation, and you look a little hungry, my friend.”

Patrick needs a cigarette, and he doesn’t even smoke. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? He changes the subject. “Sorry, I can’t help but notice your accent. It’s lovely.”

“It’s French,” Ben smiles.

“Ah, that explains it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.” Patrick smiles back. “I can speak a little French.”

“Eh, oui?”

“Oui, un petit peu.” Patrick holds his fingers up to indicate a very small amount.

“Eh bien, tu es très beaux ce soir.”

“Merci. Euh… et tu aussi?"

Ben laughs. “Close! It would be toi aussi, or vous aussi.”

“Shit,” Patrick says. “Or, uh, merde!”

They both laugh. This is better. Much better than being informed that he’s clearly starving for affection.

He stays at the bar for a while. Initial impression aside, Ben is sweet. Patrick discovers that he’s a fan of art pop and dark wave, and he holds Björk in as high regard as Brian Eno. He’s quiet and almost overly courteous, but he looks at Patrick without reserve. He looks at him with a hunger of his own, like he wants to fill that emptiness he so astutely pointed out, and Patrick is almost prepared to let him. He wants to go somewhere, anywhere, other than his home-that’s-not-a-home. His townhouse is just a sterile box where he exists with his thoughts. Gabe’s messy apartment was home. Pete’s dog-hair-coated house was home.

He looks at Ben tapping his cigarette on the side of the ashtray, but in his mind he sees Gabe taking a languid drag and letting the ashes get too long. Ben smiles, and Patrick thinks of Pete’s caramel eyes crinkling in the corners. He doesn’t want to be home, but he suddenly doesn’t want to be here anymore either.

“I think I’m gonna call it a night,” Patrick says. “Got an early one tomorrow,” he lies.

He leaves cash on the bar for Ella, waves good-bye to Ben, and walks outside. He presses his back against the cold brick of the building, next to the darkened front window, and exhales. What is he doing? Can’t drink, can’t fuck, can’t think about anything except how far he’s pushed Pete and Gabe away — into someone else’s arms and all the way to Vegas. He considers going to a club, getting way-past-wasted and trying again.

He stays out there thinking for too long, because eventually the door opens and Ben walks out. He gives Patrick a nod and a wave, and Patrick thinks he’ll continue on, but then he turns around and walks back to Patrick.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but, uh — was I reading things wrong in there? I thought you might’ve been interested in me.”

Patrick tries to smile, but he’s afraid it comes across as a grimace. “No, you weren’t reading things wrong. You’re lovely, really. I’m just not in a place right now where I can…” Patrick gives a vague wave of his hand. “You know.”

Ben nods slowly. “I understand. I won’t push you, but if you’d like, I can give you my number? Maybe I could take you out to dinner sometime.”

Patrick does smile this time. He’s used to this part. “Thanks, but I don’t really do dinner.”

“I see,” Ben says, looking dejected. “Eh bien, it was nice to meet you, Patrick. If you ever change your mind and decide to do dinner, I’m sure whoever gets to take you out will be a lucky man.”

As Patrick watches him walk away, he thinks that maybe he can live with this — just experiencing small moments of connection. Maybe not every guy he meets has to become a conquest. He can speak broken French with a stranger in the liminal space of a dive bar on the verge of last call, and he can drive home with their blue eyes and sweet smile imprinted on his mind. He tries to tell himself that maybe that’s enough.

⭗⭗⭗⭗

When Patrick gets home, he lies down on his bed in the dark. Oddly, the first thing that comes to mind, dredged out of his entangled thoughts, is Pete’s dog, Bear. He thinks of lying down on Pete’s bed and hearing Bear’s collar jingle, then feeling him lick his hand, coating it with slobber. Patrick wishes he had a dog. He has spent so much of his life trying not to be alone, and now loneliness is pulling him down, threatening to keep him trapped beneath the surface, forever looking up and reminiscing about what it’s like to revel in someone else’s adoration or the simple pleasure of their company.

He has no illusions, though. He knows he did this to himself. He’s thirty now — he hit the number with as little fanfare as he could manage, because it’s not something he particularly wants to celebrate — and Vicky is right. It’s time to own up to his mistakes and be an adult. He’s not exactly sure what that means yet, but he thinks he might want to figure it out. It’s got to be better than this ache in his chest. At this point, he’ll try anything to get it to subside. 

He always thought he could handle loss, because so much of himself has been taken away that he feels like his insides have been stripped for parts. He views love scientifically now — nothing more than a chemical formula producing intense uncontrollable reactions — because that’s the only way he can justify his past mistakes. But he's not dealing well. That's an understatement.

What Patrick really wants is to text Gabe. He’s almost done it a thousand times since he left, but he knows he needs to do the adult thing and let him have his space. He owes him that.

He's been revisiting the good memories, in that way that people often do when they lose someone they took for granted, but things weren’t always sunshine and roses with Gabe. There were plenty of times when they fought, especially in recent months — the times when Gabe pulled away because of jealousy or frustration, and the times when Patrick pushed him away because he felt he wasn’t being attentive enough. Their friendship was laced with toxicity from the moment they started sleeping together, and Patrick is aware of that now. He feels heavy with it, like it’s a stain on his soul that he can’t get out.

Still, he tried. He  _ did _ try, and he always hoped, deep down, that his feelings would change. He chalked it up to a bad past and a desire to be free — no chains of a relationship holding him down. Relationships are too much work, and when you finally get to the point where you feel comfortable, the proverbial rug gets pulled out from under you. The initial attraction fades, the fire goes out, and you see who the person you fell for really is once that glow is gone. Gabe became his refuge from that. He wanted to fall in love with him instead, but he never did, and eventually he felt too broken for a love like that anyway.

Then Pete happened. Pete is, hands down, the weirdest person he’s ever met. He’s unrealistic. He’s restless. He’s endlessly frustrating, with his idolization of modern artists that Patrick has never heard of and doesn’t understand. It’s hard for Patrick to believe Pete is five years older than him and not the other way around. It’s even harder to believe that Pete has actually managed to achieve his pipe dream. He rolled into Patrick’s life wide-eyed and hopeful, and Patrick never for a moment thought he would open an art gallery, but he proved him wrong. Pete is…

Beautiful, fun, and warm. He’s not concerned with putting on any kind of show, and that makes him all the more interesting to be around. He’s comfortable in his own skin, and he faces the world head-on. Being with him is exhilarating in a way that Patrick has never known. Patrick always saw  _ himself _ as exhilarating. Now he's thinking maybe he's just sad, and maybe that's all people really see — like Ben and his metaphorical hunger.

Patrick wants to hold Pete close and shield him from the world and prevent anything bad from touching him. But it’s too late for that, it turns out, because Patrick is the world, and Patrick is the bad thing, and Patrick touched him. Patrick has become the type of person he despises. Or maybe he always was. Maybe the only reason he was ever mistreated is because, at his core, he’s a bad person, too.

Patrick has missed Pete every day since he walked into the record store and gave up his spare key and told him he was quitting, and that particular sadness hasn’t subsided. He doesn’t expect that he will miss Pete any less tomorrow. He suspects that’s part of the reason Gabe left — he could see that sadness written on him, as well.

Frustratingly sober and miserably alone, Patrick picks up his phone and scrolls down his contacts list, lingering on Gabe's name for a moment, until he gets to Pete. He taps out a message and hits send before he can stop himself.

_ Congrats on the gallery opening. _

He immediately regrets it, wondering if Pete's even awake. Then he remembers how Pete stayed up late into the night when Patrick used to sleep over. He'd wake up to find him scribbling in a notebook and chewing on the pen, or his side of the bed would be empty but Patrick would see light leaking in from the living room, and he’d know Pete was lying on the couch watching some random documentary, trying not to disturb Patrick but inevitably doing so by his absence alone.

His phone dings.

_ Hey, thanks! _

_ Are you going to make an appearance, _

_ Mr. Lakeview? _

_ Do you want me to? _

_ Of course I want you to _

_ It’s good to hear from you _

_ You too. _

_ You're probably tired.  _

_ I won't keep you. _

_ You know me, I never sleep _

_ How have you been? _

They text for an hour, talking about nothing of consequence — new music releases, an up-and-coming artist Pete admires, and the merits of the film 28 Days Later as a political allegory.

Patrick falls asleep with his phone next to his cheek and thoughts of Pete and Cillian Murphy swirling together in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned that you guys are the best? No? Well, you're the best! Seriously, thanks for sticking around. I know Patrick is the hot mess to end all hot messes, but we're gonna get through this. <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty quick update, but we're in the home stretch and I'm excited! Songs are at the end of the chapter this time because their titles might be a bit revealing.
> 
> I'm not doing much research on art galleries for this fic, or art in general, as you can probably tell, so it may require some suspension of disbelief. I'm attributing some of what's written here to the magic of Pete Wentz.
> 
> [Gallerist Pete, perhaps](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/761796090411876382/814052492550995988/06DAYOUT-WEBSPAN-superJumbo-v2.jpg)

Patrick has been pretending to waver on the matter of attending the Decaydance gallery opening, but truthfully, he was never going to sit it out. He’s trying to convince himself that he’s going because, as one of Lakeview’s most prominent business owners, he needs to make an appearance and show his support. Really, though, it’s mostly because he selfishly, undeniably, and _desperately_ wants to see Pete.

He does not, however, go with Vicky and Hayley. As much as he loves them, the last thing he wants in his current fragile emotional state is to feel like a third wheel.

Pete is nowhere to be seen when Patrick walks into the gallery alone. It’s spacious with stark white walls and exposed beams, and Patrick is a study in contrast, dressed all in black like he’s mourning something — the loss of his former lovesick-free life, maybe. Or maybe his dignity. The first person he sees and recognizes is Travie, who stretches his arms out in a welcoming gesture and then grabs a flute of champagne from the table next to him. He walks over to Patrick and hands him the champagne.

“Little music man! I’m glad you made it. Walk around, partake in some drink and some food for the soul, and enjoy.”

“Thanks, Travie,” Patrick says. “Do you have an exhibit here?”

“Mine is the first one you’ll see. Would you like me to walk you through it, give you the artist’s guided tour?”

“Please. That would be amazing.”

Patrick follows Travie into the first exhibition room, which is filled with ink drawings — detailed scenes of Chicago, Escher-like mazes, and a series of animals inked with intricate patterns. 

“These are incredible, man,” Patrick says, genuinely meaning it, his eyes wide as he tries to drink in all of the detail. “How do you have the patience for it?”

“It’s meditative. It’s like I’m in another world when I’m doing it, and I forget about all the extraneous shit around me, you know?”

“It must be nice.”

“Isn’t playing music like that for you?”

“Sometimes. Other times it just hurts.”

Travie gives him a serious look. “That’s sad, dude.”

“Sorry, I’ve been in a weird mood lately.”

“Hey, it happens.” Travie shrugs.

They walk in silence for a bit. It feels like it should be awkward, but somehow it’s not. That’s one thing about the art world that Patrick can get behind. Exhibition spaces are made for elevated conversation — no small talk necessary — and artists generally don’t mind if you say something weird out loud.

It occurs to him then that he has an opportunity to pick an artist’s brain. “Can I ask you something?”

“Go for it,” Travie says.

“How do you, uh, critique art? Like, is it completely subjective, or are there certain things I should be looking for?”

Travie looks thoughtful. “That depends on who you’re talking to. You can pick out aspects of it, like the linework and shading, and try to decide how they affect the piece. You can read into color as a storytelling technique, whatever. Personally, I think it’s subjective. An artist creates something, they put it out into the world, and then the world gets to interpret it however they want. That’s the risk you’re taking as an artist. It doesn’t matter what you’re trying to say. The world’s gonna decide what they want to hear.” Travie shrugs. “So you might as well just do whatever the fuck makes you happy.”

“So these drawings — they’re you doing what makes you happy?”

“Yeah. They’re me coping.”

Patrick considers one of the drawings for a moment — a moth filled with ornate patterns. “Well, I think the meticulous nature of the linework here evokes depth, like there’s more going on with the moth than you’d think at first glance. As you get closer to the drawing, you can see more detail, insinuating that every creature, big and small, plays its part in nature, even if you don’t immediately realize it.”

Travie gapes. “That’s better than anything I could’ve come up with. Can I put that in the exhibit description? Fuck, I gotta go tell Bebe.”

Patrick laughs. “It’s all yours.”

“You sure you’re not an art critic in disguise?”

“I’m pulling this out of my ass. To be honest, your stuff appeals to me because I’m into science and, like,” Patrick waves his hand vaguely, “animals and shit.”

“Never mind, _that’s_ what I’m putting in the exhibit description — animals and shit, by Travie McCoy.”

“See? Not an art critic. Just a really good bullshitter when I put my mind to it.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Pete isn’t.” It’s out of his mouth before he realizes what he’s saying.

“Truer words have never been spoken. That little dude is as genuine as they come.”

“How’s he doing?” Patrick asks tentatively.

“He and Bebe have been running around like headless chickens getting this whole thing together, but he’s awesome. I’ve never seen somebody so devoted to other people’s talent. He’s, like, so enthusiastic about my work that I’m worried it’s going to my head. I can't possibly be that good, y'know?”

Patrick can’t help but laugh. “That does sound like Pete.”

“He’s an asset. We had no direction as a collective before he came around. Now it feels like things are happening, know what I mean? Fina-fucking-lly.”

“I’m amazed it came together so quickly.”

“We’ve had investors who’ve been courting us for awhile, but we were cautious about dealing with them. Pete was just what we needed — a good mediator who’ll make sure we don’t get dicked over.”

“You’re lucky you found him.”

“Tell me about it.” Travie puts his hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Hey, I’m gonna go mingle, but it was good seeing you again. Hit me up later, and if you’re interested I’ll give you a discount on one of these animals and shit.”

“Sounds like a plan. Thanks, Travie.” He watches him stride off, disappearing among the people milling about the gallery.

As Patrick walks into the next exhibition room, he’s struck by a sense of deja vu that quickly recedes to familiarity. The exhibit is filled with circular canvases of cityscapes with typography in the middle. A pang of sadness ripples through his chest. This is just like the exhibit he saw at the Art Institute with Gabe.

He almost turns around and leaves, but the images draw him in, and he decides he can handle this. He wants to experience it without the distraction of a melancholy Gabe, and maybe it will help, somehow, to do this on his own. 

As he quietly walks through the exhibit, he finds himself reading the words more deeply this time, and he notices that they seem to loosely connect. He feels like he could string them together if he could figure out their sequence. 

_I will protect you_

_I will shield you from the waves if they find you_

_I’m done with having dreams—the thing that I believe_

_You are the sun and I am just the planets_

_I’m here in search of your glory_

_That ultra kind of love_

“What do you think?” asks a familiar voice.

Patrick starts slightly as Pete approaches and stands next to him. “Sorry,” he says gently. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay,” Patrick says. It feels strange to be speaking to him again. It seems like it’s been so long and yet no time at all. He looks even better than Patrick remembered. He’s clean-shaven, and his hair is cut a little shorter. He’s more groomed and manicured, dressed smartly in a blazer and jeans, his tattoos peeking out from his sleeves. Patrick has the sudden urge to pull his shirt down and lick the inked thorns around his neck.

“You like these?” Pete asks, nodding to the photographs. “You seemed pretty absorbed in them.”

“The photography is great,” Patrick says, “but there’s something about the words. Are the phrases related somehow? They all kind of have the same feeling, I don’t know.” He feels stupid for asking, but Pete smiles.

“They’re lines from a poem. Didn’t you get one of the booklets?”

Patrick shakes his head.

“Hang on a sec.” Pete holds up his index finger and then scampers off.

He comes running back a couple of minutes later with a booklet in one hand and a champagne flute of his own in the other.

“Here you go,” he says, handing Patrick the booklet. Then he raises his glass. “Hey, should we toast? To pretentious small-business owners?”

Patrick laughs. “To pretentious small-business owners.” They clink their glasses together, and then Patrick turns his attention to the booklet. 

It’s folded back, opened up to the section with info about the exhibition room they’re in. One page displays a portrait and biography of the photographer, a New Jersey transplant named Frank Iero, and the opposite page is printed with a poem. It doesn’t take Patrick long to realize that the poem is composed of the phrases on the photographs arranged in their true sequential form, and below it, the author is attributed. 

Patrick gasps. “Wait!”

Pete just grins.

“You wrote this?”

Pete nods, and if Patrick didn’t know him well enough, he’d think there was something akin to shyness on his face. “Frank is our most successful artist, and I’ve been an admirer of his work for a while. When he showed me his latest series, it reminded me of driving around Chicago last year, getting to know the city and, um, people like you. So I wrote a poem about it. I showed it to him, and he asked me if he could incorporate it in the series. It took me, like, an entire month to pick my jaw up off the floor, but anyway, he matched each line to one of his photos, and… yeah.” Pete looks down at his feet, his face glowing red.

“It’s amazing. I mean, the photographs are beautiful, but the words are really what make the series. It wouldn’t be the same without them.”

“You think so?”

“Absolutely.” Patrick wishes he could find the right words to describe how the series makes him feel. He suddenly feels inadequate. He doesn’t think he can bullshit Pete the way he did Travie, and he doesn’t want to anyway. Travie’s art was lovely — so lovely he’s probably going to take him up on that discount — but looking at Frank and Pete’s joint pieces, it’s like his heart is swelling for his city and all of the people he’s known, whether for a night or a thousand days, and the myriad ways they’ve dug into his soul and fucked him up for better or worse.

“You know what this means?” Pete asks slyly.

“What?”

“I’m technically an artist now.” He looks proud of himself. 

There’s something about the combination of the feeling he’s getting from the photographs and Pete standing here next to him with that look on his face — it’s like something has clicked inside of Patrick, and all of his emotions are threatening to burst out of his chest like he’s in a Ridley Scott film. “Fuck yes, you are! These were at the Chicago museum. You’ve not only opened your own gallery, but you’ve been featured at the fucking Art Institute.”

Pete’s smile is big and warm enough to set the gallery on fire. “You saw them there?”

“Yeah," Patrick says, and then hesitantly, "I went with Gabe.”

“Oh, right on,” Pete says, undeterred. "I'm glad he took you along with him. I thought he might."

"You were the guy in the bar who told him about the exhibit, weren't you?”

Pete nods. “I went to Nightshades. I had no idea Gabe worked there. I went in to give them a stack of flyers for the gallery to keep in the bar, and we ended up talking for a bit — more than we ever did at the record store. He’s a good guy. Kind of a firecracker.”

“Yeah, I seem to attract that type.” Patrick gives Pete a sideways grin.

“How’s he doing?”

“Good, I hope. I haven’t talked to him in a bit. He’s in Vegas.”

“What?” Pete turns fully toward Patrick then. “Why?”

Patrick shrugs. “He needed to get away for awhile, and he had a bartending opportunity at some fancy resort out there.”

“Damn. It’s hard to imagine Chicago without him. He’s almost as much of a fixture in this part of the city as you are.”

Patrick doesn’t respond. He wonders how much Pete and Gabe talked about him, but he doesn’t want to dwell on it. Gabe’s absence is still a dull ache in his chest. The pain isn’t as fresh, but it’s there. And Pete is a different kind of pain — sharp and spreading out further from the center of his chest the longer he stands here next to him. He’s not sure he can handle both kinds of pain at once.

He focuses on why he’s here. He remembers Vicky’s words and his promise to himself, and he tries to be an adult about this. “I’m proud of you, Pete. I can’t believe how quickly you made this happen. You deserve this — all of it.”

A momentary pained look crosses Pete's face, and his voice is rough when he says, “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“No,” Patrick shakes his head. “You did this on your own.”

“I did this because of your connections,” Pete insists. “Let’s be real.”

“Maybe,” Patrick says, “but you’re amazing at it all on your own. Look at this — your words adding depth and meaning to someone else’s art.”

They stand in silence for a few minutes. Patrick stares at the canvas in front of them — a purple-tinted overview of the city with the words _When I think of you_ in small lettering in the center.

“Patrick.”

Patrick inhales sharply at the sound of his name on Pete’s lips. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath. “Yeah?” he exhales.

Pete fixes Patrick with a look that makes his insides melt. His eyes flick to Patrick’s mouth, and for a moment he thinks Pete is going to kiss him. His stomach flutters as he imagines Pete’s soft, warm lips on his again. There’s a static heat between them that Patrick realizes now that he only ever feels with Pete. It scares him. He’s not sure if it will ever stop scaring him, but he wants to know what it feels like to give himself over to Pete completely, no hesitation.

Pete swallows and takes a small step back. “I’m glad you came,” he says.

It takes everything in Patrick not to reach out and pull him back. Instead, he just nods. All of the words he wants to say are rising in his throat. It’s not his place to tell Pete that he wants to go home with him, fall into bed with him, and kiss him raw. He should let Pete decide what he wants and go with that. He owes him that much.

The problem is, Patrick has never been good at self-control. “Pete,” he blurts out, unable to stop the words from escaping his mouth, “do you think we could, I don’t know, pick up where we left off?”

There's a long silence, and Pete frowns. Patrick feels the mood in the air change — that old familiar tension snapping into place. He suddenly finds himself wishing for a trap door to inexplicably open below his feet.

“Where did we leave off, exactly?” Pete finally asks. "At each other's throats because you couldn't commit but you didn't expect the same from me?"

“Okay, maybe not _exactly_ where we left off, but…” Patrick trails off. He doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants. He sees now the many ways he’s been unreasonable, and he feels like he needs to step carefully here, like he’s dealing with a skittish deer. "Maybe we could try again?"

Pete takes a lingering sip of his champagne and folds his arms, the glass dangling from his hand. Patrick stares at Pete’s fingers, wanting everything but feeling like he’s losing it instead.

“I would like to have you in my life again. I was really happy to hear from you the other day,” Pete says. He hesitates for a second and then goes in for the kill. “I want us to be friends.”

The words are visceral. Patrick feels like he’s reliving the night of the blizzard, but there’s no anger this time. It’s just hurt, stripped down and laid bare. He blinks rapidly. He’s been crying more than he ever thought possible lately. He didn’t know he was this waterlogged. He does _not_ want to cry here, in the middle of Pete's brand-new gallery surrounded by people. “Friends,” he repeats. It’s all he can manage.

“I don’t know if I can do much beyond that right now,” Pete says quietly.

“Okay,” Patrick says, nodding, trying to match his emotions to the word. “Friends. I can do that.” He smiles but keeps his eyes cast down, staring at the bubbles moving across the surface of his champagne.

“I’m really glad you came.”

“Me, too,” Patrick lies.

“I’m gonna head back out there, try to gauge interest. But hey,” he bends down a bit to catch Patrick’s eyes with his own, “text me, alright?”

“Yeah. I’ll text you.”

“Can I get a hug?”

Everything in Patrick is screaming no. He thinks a hug from Pete, looking the way he does while Patrick’s heart is in the process of cracking open, just might kill him. But Pete is moving toward him and pulling him into his chest before he can react, and Patrick just inhales, just breathes him in and thinks it’s a good death.

“I’ll see you around, Patrick,” Pete says, so softly.

Then he walks away from Patrick again, leaving him surrounded by his words and clutching them in his hand.

⭗⭗⭗⭗

Exactly two weeks later, Patrick has decided that it’s possible he came on too strong. 

He’s been thinking about it, running over his conversation with Pete again and again in his mind, and that’s the conclusion he’s reached. 

He was also told that he came on too strong in no uncertain terms by Vicky. When he relayed the conversation to her the day after the gallery opening, her immediate response was, “You are such a _giant_ baby, oh my _god_ , what am I _even_ going to do with you, Patrick _Stump-ugh!”_ Then she told him he came on too strong.

He tried texting Pete a couple of days after the event, but Pete didn’t text him back until three days later. He apologized, said things are hectic right now and he had intended to text back, but he’s actually been sleeping — for once in his life — when he’s not at the gallery.

Patrick would like to take that at face value, but he thinks the more likely scenario is that he scared him off.

Patrick has no idea what to do. He feels like there’s a deep pit in his stomach, and he needs a goofy smile and silly late-night conversations about ‘80s movies to fill it in. He has never felt a need for domesticity before, but all of a sudden he’s tired all the time, and he’s hurting in places he never thought could hurt, and all he wants is to wake up to Pete handing him a mug of coffee as he crawls back into bed with him.

Being thirty _fucking sucks._

He’s in the back room at True Blue Records, stewing in his sadness and thinking that things can’t possibly get any worse, when he hears a soft knock on the door followed by silence. 

No one ever knocks softly. Vicky and Andy both either knock loudly and then open the door without waiting for a response, or they forego the knocking altogether and just barge in.

“Come in?” Patrick asks, bewildered.

The door inches open, revealing a stricken-looking Vicky.

“Hey,” Patrick says. “Is everything okay?”

“Um, kind of?” Vicky enters the room and shuts the door behind her. This can’t be good. Vicky and Andy almost never shut the door behind them, instead opting to say whatever it is they need to say as loudly as possible, in full audible range of the customers, no matter how personal it is or how many expletives they use. 

“What’s up?” Patrick asks as Vicky sits down in the chair on the opposite side of his desk like she’s in trouble or something. “What did you do?” he amends, narrowing his eyes at her.

“So,” she begins, taking a deep breath. “You remember the first day Pete came in here?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, eyes still narrowed.

“And you remember when he mentioned, um, that I might be able to teach art classes at the gallery?”

“I vaguely remember something like that, yes.”

“Well…” she trails off.

Any idiot with a useless Environmental Science degree can see where this is going. “And now you’re teaching art classes at his gallery?”

“Yes!”

“That’s great! What days are you doing it? Do you need to switch days with Andy?”

Vicky fidgets in her chair. “Um, see, that’s the thing. I was kind of thinking — if it’s okay, um — I mean, I was hoping — maybe I could, um, put in my notice?”

“Wait, what? Like a two-weeks notice?”

“If I split my time between teaching classes and exhibiting my art, then I can make a living as an artist.” Vicky pauses and leans forward a bit, looking into Patrick’s eyes like she can hypnotize his sadness away. “I love it here and I love you, but I went to art school, Patrick. I don’t want to sell records forever. No offense.”

Patrick tries to swallow the lump in his throat. He’s happy for her. He needs to show her that he’s happy for her. He does _not_ need to cry. When did his tear ducts turn into fucking Niagara Falls? “No, I get it. It’s great, Vicky, really. I’m happy for you, and Pete doesn’t know how lucky he is.”

“I’m here for you for another full two weeks, though,” she assures him. “Anytime you need me, just say the word and I’ll be here.”

“But after you leave, who’s going to scare all the poor impressionable scene kids away?”

Vicky rolls her eyes. “It’s not like I won’t be in here every other weekend.”

“Only every _other_ weekend?” Patrick pouts.

Vicky reaches over the desk and punches him on the shoulder.

“Ow! That I won’t miss at all.”

⭗⭗⭗⭗ 

Vicky hangs out for the rest of the day, lingering even after her shift is over. Patrick understands that he’s not losing her friendship, but it still feels like a loss. Vicky knows her stuff, and she covers genres that Patrick and Andy are inadequate at selling. She has regulars who adore her, and it will be difficult to find a replacement who can vibe with people in the same way she did.

The following day, all of Patrick’s sadness has warped into anger. 

He keeps reaching for a reason to be so angry, only to have it scuttle away as soon as his hand gets too close. The only person who deserves this kind of anger is himself, he thinks, but he knows who he wants to take it out on, and he decides that having one of his employees stolen from him is a good enough reason. 

At lunchtime, he makes his way to Decaydance, hoping Pete will be there so he can give him a piece of his mind. 

Pete is standing in the gallery’s lobby as soon as Patrick enters the door, and Patrick almost can’t believe his luck, until he registers who Pete is standing in front of — Bebe, of fucking course.

He doesn’t back down. If anything, he feels more determined. He walks right up to Pete and says, “Can I talk to you? In private?”

Looking like his eyeballs might fall out of his head, Pete responds, “Uh, sure.” He looks at Bebe. “Can you give us a minute?”

She nods and gives Patrick a small smile. In another universe, maybe Patrick isn’t so petty, but in this one, he does not return her smile.

He follows Pete through the neatly stark gallery to a door, which Pete opens to reveal — an entirely bare, empty room. There’s not even a window — just four while walls and a polished wooden floor. Patrick blinks. “What the fuck is this?”

“We don’t have the gallery completely finished yet, aside from the exhibition spaces. The offices are still being worked on. This room doesn’t have a use right now, but it’s probably the most private place available,” Pete responds as he closes the door. “I think it’s meant to be a storage closet?”

“This is weird. I feel like I’m nowhere.”

Pete laughs. “It does kinda feel like that, doesn’t it?” His face grows serious. “We are nowhere, and it’s now.”

No. Fucking no. Patrick will not be distracted by Bright Eyes lyrics. He narrows his eyes. “You asshole.”

“What? I thought you liked Bright Eyes!”

“I fucking love Bright Eyes. But you could’ve at least given me some kind of warning before you poached one of my employees.”

“That’s what this is about? I didn’t _poach_ Vicky. She wanted the job, and I gave it to her. I don’t understand why that’s a shock to you. I thought you knew months ago that it was a possibility.”

“I thought she’d have a studio space and maybe teach a class here and there, and I didn’t—” Patrick almost lets it slip. He almost says _I didn’t think you would get a gallery up and running at all, let alone in six months._

"You just tucked it away in the back of your mind because the future is of no concern to you. You never think about the future, Patrick."

“Of course I think about the future! I own a fucking business! A business that needs _employees_ in order to function, by the way.”

“You can’t actually be mad about this. This is a great opportunity for Vicky. Aren’t you happy for her?”

“Of course I’m happy for her!” Patrick throws his hands up, feeling slightly stupid and weirdly exposed in this room of nothingness. “Just do me a solid and let me know ahead of time if you plan on taking Andy — or any more of my friends, for that matter. I’ve already lost Gabe because of you.”

Patrick regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth. His face heats, and the room feels claustrophobic. It’s the second time in a month that he’s wished for the floor to fall out from underneath him.

“That wasn’t my fault,” Pete says, unnervingly calm, “and you know that. I know you miss Gabe, and I’m sorry he’s gone, but don’t put that on me.”

Patrick sighs. He feels the fight leaving him.

“Why are you really here?” Pete asks, his voice soft and gentle and understanding, and Patrick wants to be angry at him, wants to be able to blame him for everything, but he can’t. He knows the answer to that question, and he would wager Pete knows, too. At this point, he really has nothing left to lose.

“I’m here because I miss you. I know I fucked up, and I know _I’m_ fucked up, but I can’t stop thinking about you, and everything is changing because of you — for the better. _I’m_ changing. You make _me_ better. I’m here because I’m thirty fucking years old and I want you in my life. Only you. Exclusively.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before Pete is surging forward and cupping Patrick’s face in his hands and kissing him, like he’s been trying to hold it in but can’t anymore, and Patrick would feel smug about that if he wasn’t too busy trying not to buckle at the knees.

Pete kisses Patrick like he’s tasting him for the first time, and Patrick kisses back with just as much hunger. He thought that half a year between them hadn’t dulled his memory, that he would never forget what it’s like to kiss Pete, but he was wrong. It all comes rushing back to him now in a sensory wave so strong that he feels like it will knock his feet out from under him and carry him out to sea.

They kiss, and Pete puts his hands on the small of Patrick’s back and pulls him closer as he licks into Patrick’s mouth, and Patrick can’t breathe, but he would sacrifice his breath and his beating heart for Pete’s tongue in his mouth.

When they break apart, Patrick gasps for air, but Pete keeps his hands on his back, holding him close and looking at him like he wants to display him on the wall in one of the exhibition rooms.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Pete asks.

“Don’t you have to — do whatever it is you do here?”

“I kind of get to make my own schedule, most of the time, and you have impeccable timing.” Pete smiles. “I don’t have anything on my plate right now that can't wait 'til later, so do you want to go somewhere and talk, maybe? I feel like that’s a thing that needs to happen.”

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees. “Let’s go talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs:  
> [I Can Break Your Heart Too - The Aces](https://open.spotify.com/track/2uFkRg6BICax5y6OUQnkOQ?si=f9406d93eccf45f7)  
> [Draggin' Around - Rilo Kiley](https://open.spotify.com/track/6KZZCXHoi2j9Ky3W08LDlX?si=a0c71b26f27e4873)  
> [Soap - Stand Atlantic](https://open.spotify.com/track/08M4G76mQfNwOGle9lPzxa?si=6a33cd3a206b4e55)
> 
> I'm having almost as much fun finding these songs as I am writing the fic. I had a playlist for this fic in the beginning, but the story has changed so much from what I'd initially planned that it doesn't fit anymore. I'll probably make a new one including these songs that I've been sharing once the fic is done.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A man-child](https://64.media.tumblr.com/5edf476c84c8707eeec4c22347cf6ceb/tumblr_n76aon5gKQ1r7rcw0o1_250.gif)
> 
> It’s the penultimate chapter! I went ahead and made a fancy new playlist for this fic. Every song on the list is by a female artist, so if you're looking for some ladies to listen to, hopefully you can find something to love here: [ubersongs.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0YL0zkXucd6zcyRmpljPC3?si=9bbef3f5d37b4334)

They grab a couple of bagels and walk along the Lakefront Trail. It’s a beautiful early autumn day, a cool breeze flowing off the lake. Patrick realizes that he hasn’t been with Pete outdoors in the daylight like this very often. The sunlight is reflecting in his eyes, turning them green-gold, and he looks vibrant in a way that feels new to Patrick. The gallery is good for him, or maybe there’s some kind of metaphor there, that Patrick kept Pete out of the sun too long. He wants to see him like this, blanketed in warmth and thriving in his true element, as often as he can.

Half of Pete’s work might have already been done for him when he met Bebe and Travie, but Patrick is starting to believe that he would have achieved his mirage-like dream no matter what. It may have taken more time on his own, but he would have accomplished it with or without Patrick and his network of acquaintances. That’s just the kind of person Pete is. Patrick made things happen for himself out of necessity, because he had no choice but to build resilience as he stumbled through his twenties, but Pete makes things happen because he’s genuinely fascinated with the world and the people he meets, and he learns from them as he goes.

They make small talk, watching the cyclists, joggers, and geese along the path as they finish their food. Patrick thinks how easy it could be if this were part of their everyday routine. The trail is close to both the gallery and the record store. They could meet for lunch and walk along Lake Michigan. Patrick could reach over and take Pete’s hand, and they could stop at the Peace Garden and sneak a kiss. Patrick hasn’t thought about these kinds of things for a long, long time.

After a break in the conversation, with their bagel wrappers tossed in a bin half a mile back, Pete says belatedly, “I’ve missed you, too, you know.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything. He watches a small crease form on Pete’s brow as he thinks, and he waits for him to continue — anticipating, dreading, a mixture of emotions churning uncomfortably in his gut.

“I’ve thought about you a lot,” Pete says. “I’ve tried not to, honestly, but I’m not happy with the way I left things.”

“It’s okay,” Patrick says quietly. “I deserved it.”

“I don’t know.” Pete runs his hand over his face. “I just wish I had explained myself better. I was angry.”

“You had a right to be. I was confused and drunk. That’s kind of been my default mode, actually, for a long time. When I saw you with Bebe, I just immediately reacted, and I didn’t think about how it would affect you.”

“You… understand why it did, though, right?”

Patrick sighs. “Yes. It was unfair of me, I know. I’m not a _total_ idiot. Most of the time.”

“If we do this,” Pete begins hesitantly, “it has to be different this time. I tried the casual thing, and I thought I could be okay with it, but I obviously can’t. Like, I think I almost convinced myself I could, but to paraphrase Murtaugh, I’m getting too old for that shit.”

“I am, too! Seriously.”

Pete smirks. “I thought you couldn’t age, that you were some kind of cherubic vampire.”

“I’m painfully aware of my own aging process, believe me.”

“You’re aging just fine, like a single-barrel whiskey.”

“Oh, I could really go for a scotch right now,” Patrick says wistfully.

Pete is smiling, and with the light reflecting in his eyes, it’s almost too bright for Patrick to bear. “I also like you a lot, you know? There’s that, too.”

“I like you a lot, too.”

Pete’s smile fades, and his worry lines return. “I have to ask, Patrick. This sudden change of heart — is it because Gabe’s gone?”

“No.” Patrick looks at Pete pleadingly, “ _No._ I miss Gabe, but it was never like that with him. He’s — hard to explain, but he’s not you. And it’s not a sudden change of heart.”

“It’s not?”

“Pete, you can’t really think that I didn’t care about you — like, _truly_ care about you — the entire time.”

“I don’t know, Patrick. I mean, I kinda hoped you did, but it was hard to believe when you kept telling me you were really attached to fucking other people.”

“I know I made it all so confusing, and I know I held you to different standards than I did myself, and I’m sorry. I know I don’t deserve any kind of chance with you. But I’m still hoping you’ll let me try, because you’re the first person I’ve wanted to try with since…”

“Since the bad shit.”

“Since the bad shit,” Patrick confirms, sighing.

“Look, I’m not your therapist and I don’t want to diagnose you, but I get why you’re afraid. But I’m not one of your old boyfriends or your old bandmates. I’m not gonna hurt you like that. At least, I’m gonna try my best not to.”

“I know. I think I just — I think I needed a little while to understand that.”

They walk for a bit in silence, Pete frowning slightly like he does when he’s lost in thought. Finally, he says, quickly like he’s ripping off a band-aid, “Gabe said things couldn’t work between you two because you decided you needed him to be your buffer.”

“My buffer?”

“Someone to fall back on when you got hurt or scared. Someone to make it hurt a little less until you could try again.”

Patrick’s heart sinks. It’s true, but it’s uncomfortable to hear it out loud and to know that Gabe understood it that way and still loved him unfailingly anyway.

“I don’t want to become that for you,” Pete continues. “I don’t want to be Gabe’s stand-in. I don’t want to be your buffer.”

“You’re not,” Patrick insists, and he means it. “I never should’ve put Gabe in that position. He was right to leave.”

Pete exhales heavily. Patrick can’t tell if he’s satisfied with that answer, but he hopes he believes him. All he can do is hope, and try. 

“I’m sorry he left,” Pete says.

Patrick shakes his head. “I appreciate the sentiment, but you don’t have to be sorry. It’s good that he left, as much as I miss him. He needs to think about himself for once.” Patrick pauses, considering how to untangle the knot in his chest and turn it into words. The impossibility of it is suffocating. “I care deeply about Gabe. I’m always going to, but it’s not the same as with you.”

“How is it, then?” Pete asks softly. “With me?”

“You said that you fell for me the second time you saw me, right?” Pete nods sheepishly. “That’s a sweet thought, and I want to believe that the universe brought us together, but I think, for me, it was more like waves eroding a cliff. It was the small things you did, the things you said, the way you looked at me.” Patrick pauses. “It was how much of my shit you tolerated.”

“So you’re saying I wore you down?”

Patrick laughs. “Yeah, you kind of did. Then you left, and you know how it goes. You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone." Then he adds, because he can’t help himself, "They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.”

“Leave it to you to quote Joni Mitchell right now.”

“It’s best you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

Pete is laughing as he says, “Oh, I knew that within the first week.”

“You do the same thing now.”

“I do,” Pete says, still laughing. “I spent too much time at True Blue.”

“Let me take you on a date,” Patrick says, a sudden spark of inspiration. “A real date.”

Pete looks down at his feet, his smile still plastered on his face. “You pick the date?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, feeling eager, hopeful. “No bars or clubs this time.”

“Okay,” Pete agrees, nodding slowly and giving Patrick a serious look. “I’d really like that.”

“Great! Is tonight too soon?”

A laugh bursts from Pete’s chest, his eyes wide. “It’s a _little_ soon. The gallery is keeping me on my toes right now. We’re barely even open. What about this weekend?”

“This weekend,” Patrick nods once, firmly. “I’ll look forward to it.”

A glimmer of hope. Maybe he can salvage this after all.

——

When Pete arrives at Patrick’s to pick him up — in a new-to-him silver Honda — Patrick doesn’t tell him where they’re going. He just gives him directions, until they’re pulling into the parking lot and he watches recognition dawn on Pete’s face.

“This is…”

“The arboretum where we broke down,” Patrick says.

"You…”

“I have good memories associated with this place. And there’s a sculpture exhibition going on here right now that I thought you might want to see.”

Pete is looking at Patrick with an expression he can’t quite pin down — awe, incredulity, appreciation, all of the above.

The sculptures are admittedly impressive. Patrick doesn’t _get_ art the way Pete seems to, but even he feels a bit humbled by them. They’re giant, towering metal figures, each connecting people to nature in some way — a woman opening her chest to reveal greenery lining the insides of her body, two giant hands joined together by entwining roots, a garden of intricate human faces interspersed with flowers.

Pete stares at the flower-framed visages, rapt.

“It’s a little creepy,” Patrick whispers.

“It’s _very_ creepy,” Pete whispers back, and then, still in a whisper, “Thank you for bringing me here. I love it.”

As they make their way through, Patrick alternates between admiring the sculptures and admiring Pete. 

After eating in the arboretum café, as they’re walking back to the car, Pete’s hand brushes against Patrick’s. He takes a quick breath and catches Pete’s pinky with his, hooking them together. 

Pete slides his hand fully into Patrick’s and gives it a little squeeze.

——

When they arrive back at Patrick's townhouse, evening is shading the sky a dark blue, and the city is getting its second wind. Patrick is not accustomed to his excursions being over at this time of day. Usually, they’re only beginning. He’s not ready to let go of Pete yet. “Do you want to come inside?” he asks.

Pete shuts the car off immediately in answer, and Patrick is relieved that they’re not taking things all that slowly.

When they get inside, Pete looks around in awe.

“Oh, come on,” Patrick scoffs. “It’s not that interesting.”

“I’ve never seen the inside of your place before! The mystery has finally been revealed! _Of course_ it’s interesting.”

“You can’t honestly tell me this is everything you expected it to be.”

“No, you’re right. I think I built it up too much in my head. I was expecting, like, a portal to another dimension or a human tooth collection.”

“So you thought I was a serial killer.”

“How was I supposed to know? You never invited me over!” 

“Well, don’t get too complacent. You haven’t seen the whole place yet. I could be keeping the teeth upstairs.”

Undeterred, Pete walks over to Patrick’s record collection, or the bit of it that’s displayed in the living room, at least. These are his favorites, the ones he most wants people to see — if he ever happens to have people over. They’re arranged in a ‘70s-style wooden TV stand. On top of the stand sits a Rega turntable and a stereo system with a matching ‘70s wooden finish. The whole setup is his pride and joy, and it’s probably the most personal area of his home aside from the designated music room.

Pete runs his index finger over the album spines. He pulls out a copy of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours — the limited edition ‘78 Dutch marbled version.

“You can play it if you want,” Patrick says. “Just, um, be careful. It’s worth a pretty penny.”

“I have a feeling a lot of these are,” Pete says, his voice quiet with reverence.

Patrick watches as Pete gingerly slides the record out of the sleeve and places it on the turntable. When the needle drops, Patrick relishes the pop of static before the steadily building guitar of Second Hand News floats out of the speakers.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asks Pete. “Beer? Whiskey? Something non-alcoholic?”

Pete smiles and says, “I’ll take a beer.”

Patrick retrieves a couple of All Day IPAs from the kitchen and hands one to Pete. They crack them open and stand awkwardly, drinking and listening to Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham singing in unison.

Neither of them move to sit. Neither of them speak. Patrick feels suspended in time, like he’s been resigned to standing here in front of Pete listening to Fleetwood Mac forever, wanting Pete but waiting for him to make the first move. He thinks it’s imperative that Pete make the first move.

When the first chorus of Dreams hits, Pete finally, _finally_ sets down his beer on the coffee table and moves closer to Patrick. He gently takes Patrick’s beer from his hand and sets it down next to his, and then he pulls Patrick into him, wrapping his arms around his waist and placing his warm cheek against his temple.

Patrick feels the tension drain from his body as he relaxes into Pete. He falls into step with him, and they sway slowly together to Dreams.

He lets Pete hold him, unable to remember the last time he was held like this, unsure if he ever was, and not really caring, because he needs this now and he has it, and he wants, for once in his life, to be fully in the moment. He’s glad they’re both sober. He wraps his arms around Pete’s neck and thinks that if they do somehow end up suspended in time, in this particular moment, he could be okay with that.

On the final chorus, Pete kisses him, slow and deep and lasting into the opening notes of Never Going Back Again. 

Patrick shivers involuntarily, and Pete stops. “Hey,” he says softly, looking into Patrick’s eyes.

“Hey,” Patrick responds.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Patrick smiles. “Very much so.”

Pete smiles back warmly. “We can take this slow if you want.”

“I’m okay with _some_ speed. Um, you know, if you are.”

“Yeah, I’m good with that. I just…” Pete looks around, his hands on Patrick’s waist. “Uh, I don’t know where your bedroom is, so…”

“Oh, I see,” Patrick says, laughing. “I like your eagerness. It’s flattering.” He turns around, taking Pete’s hands from around his waist. He keeps hold of them, grasping them behind his back as he leads him upstairs to his room.

Pete glances around cursorily at Patrick’s room — the battered acoustic against the wall, the pile of clothes on the floor, the Tom Waits poster on the wall — before going over to his bed and flopping down, kicking his shoes off, and sitting up against the headboard. “Come here, beautiful,” he says.

Patrick follows Pete’s lead, taking off his shoes as well, and climbs on top of him, straddling him. They kiss for a long time, the sound of Rumours from the speakers downstairs almost imperceptible now. 

Patrick runs his hands underneath the hem of Pete’s shirt, lifting it up and off. He traces the tattoo on Pete’s chest with his fingers and kisses a slow trail over it. He moves up Pete’s neck until he reaches his lips, breathing him in and kissing him greedily, not quite able to believe he’s found himself here again after so long, melting a little bit from the comfortable familiarity of it.

He helps Pete get him out of his cardigan and shirt. He almost lost himself for a bit in kissing Pete, but he remembers to deliberately moan and arch his back when Pete places his lips on his chest.

Patrick loves sex. He loves the way it makes him feel — how it takes his mind out of everything else and moves him into a space of complete bliss and relaxation. And it’s fun. He has fun.

But he wants to be _good._ He wants to be un-fucking-forgettable. He usually doesn’t see the people he’s fucking more than a handful of times after their initial encounter, but he wants to burn his performance into their psyches so they’ll remember him as the best they’ve ever had. He wants to pop into their heads, unwarranted but welcome, when they’re fucking their boyfriends and husbands, and he wants them to wish he was riding their dicks instead.

At least, that’s how he used to think, before Pete came along. 

Now he wants to impress Pete for entirely different reasons. He doesn’t want to lose him again. He wants to be good enough for him. He doesn’t want to do anything that will cause Pete to resent him. He wants to feed this fire and make sure it never dampens. 

This is why he usually drinks before he does this.

He unbuckles Pete’s belt and gets him out of his jeans. Then he stands up and lets Pete watch as he unbuttons and unzips his own jeans slowly, releasing his heavy cock. He strokes it, biting his bottom lip as he thumbs the head. Pete’s own cock twitches, jutting up against his stomach, full and ready.

Patrick shimmies out of his pants and underwear and climbs back onto Pete. “You want this cock?” he asks, giving it a tug. “How do you want it, baby?”

He kisses Pete roughly before he has a chance to respond. He catches Pete’s bottom lip between his teeth, releasing it slowly in a lingering bite.

“Or do you want me to ride you?” he asks. He thrusts his hips forward, grinding their dicks together, and Pete moans and throws his head back. “How much have you missed this ass?”

“Patrick,” Pete says. He grabs Patrick’s hips with both hands.

“Yeah? You want me to ride your dick?”

“Hey,” Pete says, stilling Patrick’s hips in his hand. “Hey, stop. Wait a minute.”

Patrick stops. He’s never been told to stop before. Did he do something wrong? “Did I do something wrong?” 

“No, no.” Pete leans forward and kisses him, running his hands along his sides soothingly. “I just want you to have a good time. You don’t have to put on a show for me.”

“I’m not —” Okay, maybe he is, but — “I want to make it good for you.”

“It _is_ good. _Really_ good. But you don’t have to worry about making it good for me every time. It’s not just for me.”

Patrick sighs. He feels himself softening. He feels _Pete_ softening. This is not the way he expected this to go.

“Hey,” Pete says. “Just relax, okay? Lay back for me.”

He’s a little scared all of a sudden, any semblance of control he might have had completely evaporated, but he trusts Pete. He looks at him for a beat, then breathes deeply and adjusts so that he’s lying on his back.

Pete gets on his knees above Patrick and runs his hands up and down his legs, stroking them, soothing him. “Do you have lube and condoms, babe?”

“Yeah,” Patrick manages to croak out. “Side table — other side of the bed.”

Patrick stares at the muscles moving on Pete’s back as he stretches across the bed to open the drawer. He sets the lube and condoms on the bed next to them and leans over Patrick. 

Patrick stares at Pete’s chest, uncertain.

“You okay?” Pete asks softly. “What are you thinking?”

He’s thinking he’s too sober and too aware of every movement of his own body, and he’s thinking that’s never been a good thing before. But he wants this. His eyes flick up to Pete’s. “I want this.”

“Okay,” Pete smiles at him with lust-laced reassurance.

He rests his weight on one arm and runs his index finger along Patrick’s bottom lip, pushing against it gently. Patrick complies, opening his mouth to suck Pete’s finger in. He flicks his tongue against his fingertip, then swirls it around the length of his finger, tasting the salt-tinged bitterness of his skin. Pete adds a second finger, then a third, and Patrick feels Pete hardening against him as he sucks and swirls his tongue.

Pete slides his fingers out of Patrick’s mouth and then licks his palm. Then he wraps his hand around both of their cocks. Patrick moans softly as he feels Pete’s cock grinding against his, their saliva mixing with their precome as Pete strokes them together. 

Pete leans down and kisses Patrick. He’s panting hot breaths against Patrick’s mouth, periodically taking sweet little sips of Patrick’s lips, and Patrick is getting dangerously close to coming. He’s overwhelmed. This is so much more of Pete than he expected he would get so soon after inserting himself back into his life. Here in his own bed with Pete on top of him, Pete’s cock against his own, Pete’s hand wrapped around them, and Pete’s breath in his mouth — he can’t — “Pete, I’m —”

Pete stops. He looks at Patrick and grins, breathing heavily, both of his hands now braced on the bed above Patrick’s head. He kisses Patrick again, inhaling deeply, before sitting back on his knees.

Patrick looks at the ceiling while Pete opens the condom and sheathes himself. He can’t look at Pete’s dick right now. He can’t look at Pete touching his own dick. He needs to calm the fuck down.

He focuses on breathing, until he looks down and sees Pete opening the lube. He pulls his legs back almost involuntarily, opening up for Pete, making sure he knows he wants him. He _really_ fucking wants him. If pressed for specifics, he’d say he really wants to come with Pete’s dick inside of him. “Pete, I…”

“Hmm?” Pete presses a slick finger to Patrick’s hole, and Patrick moans.

“I want you,” he exhales.

“You want me?” Pete asks slyly as he circles Patrick’s hole. “Or do you want my dick?”

He’s good at this. This is usually Patrick’s game, but he’s enjoying being on the receiving end of it. “I want you. I want your dick.”

“Oh, you want me _and_ you want my dick?”

“Mm-hmm.” Patrick nods and moans loudly as Pete pushes his index finger in.

“Well, we’ve gotta get you ready first,” Pete says, low and rough. “Get you nice and stretched out so you can take this dick.”

Patrick moans wordlessly. He couldn’t form words right now if he tried. He can’t think in words — only abstract images and feelings that all have something to do with Pete — and his dick, apparently.

Pete fingers him slowly, stretching him open with one, two, then three fingers. Patrick gasps every time he nudges his prostate. He opens his legs wider and wider the longer Pete fingers him. He’s _ready_ already, for fuck’s sake. He groans impatiently.

Pete reads his frustration, thankfully, and pulls his fingers out. He replaces them with the blunt head of his dick, pushing just slightly. “You think you’re ready for me now?”

Patrick nods and gasps. His chest is heaving. He’s restless with anticipation.

“Turn over,” Pete says. “On your knees for me, okay?” Legs shaking, Patrick manages to turn over, Pete’s hands on his hips to help guide him until he’s on his hands and knees, facing away from Pete.

Patrick feels both of Pete’s hands on his ass, his thumb pressed to his hole. He says, reverently, “Fuck, Patrick, you look amazing. I’ve missed this so much.”

Then Pete is sliding in, and Patrick is gripping the bed covers in both hands. Pete hesitates, making sure Patrick is okay, but Patrick can’t deal with that right now. He has possibly never wanted to be fucked so badly in his life. “Fuck me,” he grunts.

Pete grabs his hips and thrusts into him, experimentally at first, but he picks up speed when Patrick starts pushing back against him. He moves his hands up to Patrick’s neck, holding it loosely, not enough to choke, and stroking the bottom of Patrick’s chin with his thumb. It’s strangely intimate. 

He’s been fucked countless times by countless people — some who weren’t quite so careful as this — but this is Pete, and he’s soothing him even as he fucks him rough and hard, and Patrick isn’t sure it’s ever felt quite like this.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts. He gets lost in the feeling of Pete hitting his prostate and the sounds of Pete’s grunts. 

Eventually, Pete is turning him over again. He cradles Patrick’s head in both hands while he fucks him. Patrick looks up into Pete’s eyes, and his thoughts have been replaced with nerve endings. Patrick isn’t thinking about how he looks or how good it is for Pete. There’s no possible way that this can’t be good. It feels… _so_ good.

He reaches down to stroke himself. 

“Yeah, that’s right,” Pete says. “Come for me, sweetheart.”

That’s all it takes. Patrick comes with a wordless shout so loud and embarrassing that he wishes he could retract it, but it must not be entirely unattractive because Pete is coming, too, stroking Patrick’s hair and saying his name.

They’re both panting as they come down, and Pete is looking into his eyes. Patrick can’t look away. Pete falls down onto his elbows, his face closer to Patrick’s. He kisses him sloppily and says, breathlessly, “I wanted to see your face.”

Patrick wraps his arms around Pete and kisses him until he can’t breathe.

——

Once they’re cleaned up and Patrick has come to his senses, he realizes two things: he’s still alarmingly sober, and he wants Pete to stay the night.

“Um,” he begins, rolling over to face Pete on the bed. They’re both still naked, and Patrick lets his eyes roam freely over Pete’s trim body. It’s hard to believe he’s here in his room, in his bed. He’s suddenly intensely worried he’ll do something else to fuck it up and lose him again. Like an idiot, he says, “I have an extra toothbrush if you want to stay.”

Pete grins and stretches. Patrick stares at the points of his nipples “That’s cute. Do you always have extra toothbrushes for the guys who stay over?”

“No,” Patrick huffs. “I have an extra toothbrush because guys _never_ stay here. It never gets used.”

Pete sits up on his elbow and settles his head on his hand. “They don’t stay the night?”

“I rarely ever brought them here. We’d go to their place.”

“Why?”

Patrick shrugs. “I never wanted to be here. This is where I sleep. And sometimes eat. That’s it.”

“You really never just chill at home, do you?”

“It’s hard for me to chill when I’m here, so no, not really.”

“Well, allow me to help you chill. I would love to use your extra toothbrush, but, like, I’ve swallowed your come before, so I wouldn’t mind sharing yours if it came down to it.”

Patrick pushes Pete hard, toppling him over, laughing, on the bed. “I’m trying to be thoughtful! And if you stay over again in the future, it’ll still be there. You know. It’ll be yours.”

Pete looks at Patrick the same way he looked at him when they arrived at the arboretum.

Patrick flops back down on his back. “Are you sure it’s okay for you to stay, though? What about Bear?”

“I’m not gonna lie to you,” Pete says. “I thought this was a possibility, so he’s staying at Joe’s tonight.”

Patrick smiles and rolls on top of Pete, pushing him down into the bed as he kisses him.

——

Patrick startles awake. The blue almost-light of early dawn is seeping in through the window. He hears steady breathing next to him and looks over, disoriented. Pete.

_Pete._

He falls back asleep.

——

When he wakes up again, it’s light outside and birds are chirping. He watches Pete’s chest rise and fall as he sleeps soundly next to him, marveling at the concept of watching him sleep — something he’s never gotten to do before. The gallery must really be keeping him busy.

He leans over him slowly and kisses him tenderly on the cheek, trying not to wake him, but Pete stirs anyway. He opens his eyes, looks at Patrick blearily, then smiles. “Morn’, beautiful.”

“Good morning,” Patrick whispers. “Go back to sleep if you need it. I’ll be right back.” 

Patrick pads down to the kitchen in his boxer briefs. He makes coffee — two mugs — and carries them up to his room. Pete is sitting up in bed, watching him with a lazy smile on his face as he places one of the mugs on the table next to Pete and then climbs back into bed on the other side.

“You’re too much,” Pete says.

Patrick takes a careful sip of his coffee, then says, “I learned it from you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll see you next week to wrap things up with these guys!
> 
> Inspiration for the art mentioned in this fic is linked below:  
> [Frank and Pete’s joint art](https://www.303gallery.com/fairs/art-basel-ovr-2020?view=slider)  
> [Travie’s art](https://twistedsifter.com/2013/12/intricate-ink-illustrations-by-alex-konahin/)  
> [Arboretum sculptures](https://www.mortonarb.org/events/humannature)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments on the last chapter! I'm sorry I haven't gotten to them yet, but I read them all and my heart is full. <3

“You had sex with him?!” Vicky shrieks.

It’s the day after Patrick’s date with Pete, and he’s at the record store, as is his custom on Sunday afternoons. 

Vicky is working out her notice, and it’s not as if Patrick wants her gone. He still can’t stomp out his sadness about losing her, even though he knows it’s best for her — and for Pete. But the thing is, she’s lost some of her filter. Patrick has kept the store rules pretty lax, and regular customers know they’ll talk about anything in full hearing range of them, but there are currently a couple of people browsing nearby who are clearly not regulars, as evidenced by the looks of complete shock on their faces.

“Can you keep it down a bit?” Patrick says. “We can’t afford to lose any new customers now that you’re leaving. I’m trying to think of ways to entice more people into the store, and discussing my sex life is probably not it.”

“Don’t change the subject!” Vicky hisses. “This isn’t a marketing meeting. I want details.”

“I’m not gonna — No.”

“Who bottomed this time?”

“Vicky, I swear to god…”

——

“You had sex with him,” Joe says, sighing.

He’s wearing a resigned look, like no matter what he tells Pete is best for him, it’s not going to have an effect and Pete will do the exact opposite.

Pete is at Joe’s to pick up Bear after his night spent with Patrick. They’re standing in the kitchen drinking coffee while Bear lies at Pete’s feet, ears alert and tail wagging, content from his time with Joe — and probably stuffed full of treats — but ready to go home with his dad.

Pete runs a hand over his hair, trying to flatten it. It’s sticking up hopelessly after a night in Patrick’s bed. “Yes, I did, but it’s not like you think.”

“What, he’s changed? Really?” Joe looks skeptical, which isn’t far off from his default facial expression. Joe is skeptical most of the time — or bored or smug or high. They all kind of look the same.

“He was never a bad guy, Joe.”

“Oh?” Joe scoffs. “So this isn’t the same guy who caused me to watch you mope around like a heartbroken teenager for weeks? Who you kept telling me not to let you text under any circumstances? Who made me walk in on you _crying_ to a fucking Hallmark movie because it reminded you of a conversation you had with him?”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Pete mutters.

“It _was_ that bad,” Joe persists. “I just gave you concrete examples to illustrate precisely how bad it was.”

“I think he missed me just as much, and I think he just needed time. He’s been through some rough shit and —”

“Yeah, you keep saying that, and I still don’t think it justifies him dicking you around the way he did.”

“He told me he couldn’t commit. I was aware of that the entire time.”

“He gave himself an out, is what he did.”

“Joe, trust me on this one, okay? I _really_ like this guy. I haven’t felt this way about someone in a long time, and I’m willing to give him another shot because it seems like he wants to put in the effort this time around. You should’ve seen him. He was sweet,” Pete smiles to himself, “and eager.”

“I don’t want details.” Joe holds his hands up in protest.

“I’m not talking about the sex. He was different. I mean, before, I only got to see that side of him when he let me, but now it’s like that’s all that’s there.”

Joe sighs. “If you think it’s going to work out this time, then I’m happy for you. I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

“I don’t know if it’s going to work out, but does anybody ever actually know that? All I know is that he’s become an important part of my life over the past year, and I loved waking up next to him this morning.”

“Well, I woke up next to that fleabag this morning,” Joe nods to Bear, “and that was kinda okay, I guess, so if you need me to dogsit him again while you’re out fucking the guy you can’t let go, lemme know.”

“He’s not a fleabag,” Pete says, looking at Bear, who thumps his tail on the ground and stares up at Pete adoringly, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Pete scratches behind his ears. “Maybe Patrick will still want to chill at our place most of the time, huh?” 

Bear closes his mouth and cocks his head to the side.

“Yeah, you remember Patrick, don’t you, bud? About my height, cute as a button, eyes like you wouldn’t believe, tries to act cool but really just needs to be held?”

“You’re pretty far gone for him,” Joe observes.

“He’s worth it, dude. I promise.”

——

_I think you should know I haven’t_

_stopped thinking about last night._

_Yeah?_

_I haven’t either, gorgeous_

_We should do it again soon_

_Just say when._

_Let me figure out my week at the gallery_

_I’ll let you know asap_

_We can take things slow if you need to._

_I know I’m probably coming on a little strong._

_I don’t mind falling back into some old habits with you_

_I like being with you_

_A lot_

_Thank you for giving me another chance._

_Thank you for letting me in_

——

**Some time later...**

It happens slowly, almost imperceptibly. The word _boyfriend_ becomes an everyday part of Patrick's vocabulary. _My boyfriend is picking me up after work. My boyfriend is a big fan of that record. I can't go out tonight because I have plans with my boyfriend._

The word _love_ — he's using it more often now, too. _I love the way you look in that. I love that album because you love it. I love you._

Things he never thought he would appreciate again, things he once viewed as empty gestures and hollow attempts to keep him interested, have become revelations in Pete's hands, like the day he came home to an original ‘62 stereo pressing of Kind of Blue by Miles Davis sitting on the kitchen counter. It wasn't the record itself that made him swoon so much as the note on top that read "To my favorite record — love, Pete."

There was hesitation at first. Their relationship was built on a tenuous foundation of confusion and uncertainty. Pete kept talking about Patrick going home with other guys in the present tense, as though it was imminent. He would ask about Gabe, nonchalantly prodding, like he expected Patrick to run off to Vegas at the drop of his fedora.

But six months of his absence showed Patrick what a life without Pete looks like, and he doesn’t want to go back to that, so he worked. He tried. He built trust, brick by brick. Mostly, he did it simply by being there, being present, and letting Pete love him. He still does it every day, and remarkably, thankfully, Pete is still there.

If you asked Patrick why Pete, of all people, is the one who got through to him in the end, he couldn’t give you a concrete answer. Like all things in his life, he’d probably compare it to a song. He’d tell you that Pete makes him feel like what Dylan was talking about in A Satisfied Mind.

Patrick always thought turning thirty would be the end of everything, that there would be nothing left for him to dredge out of life and he would be left staring in the face of his past failures. He would begin to lose his looks, his health, his sense of fun, and his ability to drink himself into oblivion to forget about it all. 

Now he’s thirty, and he still has all of those things, but they’re starting to look a little different. And he thinks he’s okay with that, because he likes this new version of himself, and he has someone who will hold his hand through all of it, even oblivion if it comes down to that.

Pete came rolling into his life, reminding him that love doesn’t have to be this grandiose thing. He doesn’t have to set it aside from everything else, slotting it into a separate compartment and pitting it against his freedom. He doesn’t have to compromise himself, and he doesn’t have to bend to anyone’s will. Maybe he could have been with Gabe if he’d realized that sooner, he doesn’t know, but he needed Pete's unassuming grace. It’s what got him here, and it's what he wants now, day in and day out. He’ll never take it for granted again.

——

Pete is trying to close the trunk of his car, but there’s so much luggage in it that he can’t get it to push all the way shut. He grunts in frustration.

He sees a flash of dark hair, and Vicky is jumping on top of the trunk before he can register what’s happening. It closes with a satisfying click. She bites her bottom lip and pumps her fist in the air in triumph.

“You're gonna regret that when the trunk comes flying open while we’re cruisin’ down the highway,” Hayley says.

“You two are dealing with that if it happens," says Patrick, nodding at Pete and Vicky.

“Me? But she’s the one who…” Pete sighs, deciding it’s not worth the effort to protest because he’d have to pull the car over anyway. “We decided Hayley gets first dibs on music since her family is hosting us, right?”

"That means we’re gonna get the Lilith Fair special, you guys," Vicky says as she climbs into the backseat behind Pete.

"I prefer the term _bad bitch bops,_ thank you very much," Hayley counters, getting in on the other side of Vicky.

“I’m pretty sure I have a Lilith Fair mix,” Patrick says, flipping through his CDs in the passenger seat.

“Patrick, have I told you lately that I love you?” Hayley reaches forward to ruffle his hair.

“Everybody’s buckled in?” Pete asks as he pulls out of the driveway.

“Yes, Dad,” Vicky says. “You know you’re the designated driver, like, from now until eternity, right?”

“I would object to that,” Pete says, “but I actually like driving, and somebody’s gotta keep you heathens in check.”

"Road trip!" Vicky shouts from the backseat, throwing her hands up and beating a quick rhythm on the car’s ceiling. “Nashville, baby!”

"Y'all are gonna love it," Hayley says, grinning.

"Can we meet Dolly?" Patrick asks.

"Dude, I don't personally know Dolly. Not every Tennessean knows Dolly."

Patrick clicks his tongue. “That’s disappointing. By the way, if I find a vintage Gibson Hummingbird, it's coming home with me. I'm just warning you all."

"How’s it going to fit in the trunk?" Vicky asks.

"You and Hayley will have to ride with it on your laps," Patrick responds.

“If I have to hold it on my lap the whole way home,” Hayley says, “I should at least get partial ownership.”

“Sweetheart,” Pete says, glancing at Patrick, “let’s wait until someone discovers your voice and we get rich. Then we can talk about getting a vintage Hummingbird.”

“Oh, come on,” Patrick says. “It’s not like I’m buying Kurt Cobain’s Martin. It’s worth a few thousand bucks for the way it sings.”

“I’d rather hear _you_ sing,” Pete says, smiling.

As they drive southbound out of Chicago with Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car coming through the speakers, Pete glances in the rearview mirror. Vicky's eyes are fixed on Hayley, who's looking out the window and holding her hand out, like a bird floating in the wind.

If Pete were an artist himself, he would immortalize this moment on canvas. Maybe he would paint a bird on Hayley’s hand.

He reaches across the middle console and brushes his knuckles over Patrick’s cheekbone. He runs his fingers through his fine blond hair, strokes the back of his neck, then drops his hand to his thigh. Patrick catches his hand in his and entwines their fingers, looking at him and smiling warmly.

Pete has come to believe that love is understanding the capacity in people, the way they sometimes compartmentalize and do what they can to navigate their lives because they're holding _so much_ inside. It’s realizing that and accepting it and providing them with a constant so they can set it all aside for a while, and letting them know that you’ll take it — all of it, every part of them — because after all, they have to take everything you've got buried inside of you, too.

He'll always associate the color blue with Patrick — not just because of True Blue Records, but also because of the sadness that festered inside of Patrick like a deep cut, and because of the steady friendship that grew out of those late nights spent trying to ease it.

And because of those eyes. Call him shallow if you want, but you haven't taken a dive into those eyes.

And if you ask him why he bothers with someone who kept him hanging on so long in the depths of the blues, Pete will tell you he gave his entire life another chance, so why wouldn’t he do the same for Patrick?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s finished! I can't believe it! I’ll try not to keep putting music and water metaphors in everything I write from now on, but I kind of love this fic. Kind of a lot. I can’t believe it grew out of a throwaway joke, and I can’t believe I wrote over 40k words. It’s been quite a journey. 
> 
> Thank you so much for the support, comments, kudos, everything! You’ve kept me motivated throughout this process, which kind of felt like an organic first draft, and your feedback has been invaluable. There’s a chance I’ll go back and tighten up this entire fic at some point in the future, especially improving on the earlier chapters.
> 
> For now, I’m going to take a bit of a break. I’ll see you around, and here’s hoping things get better for us all as we move through the year. <3
> 
> Again, there’s a playlist for this fic [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0YL0zkXucd6zcyRmpljPC3?si=2b6dee987e2c467e), featuring all female artists (bad bitch bops?).
> 
> Apologies to any Chicagoans who might be reading this for taking some liberties with your city. Google was my friend while writing this fic, but sometimes things don't quite add up (and sometimes I got a little lazy).


End file.
